Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peeta and I grow back together.

/

"How long are you going to waste those paints?" I tease wryly, announcing my presence as I lean against the doorframe.

Peeta doesn't even glance back at me, but I can see from my angle his expression turn sardonic. "Until this shade of green is exactly right."

I chuckle, coming further into the room—using extra caution to not startle him as he can be easily triggered when his mind is preoccupied elsewhere—and attempting to peer over his shoulder at the canvas.

It's covered with a cloth though and this time he turns to look at me before laughing softly. "Trying to sneak a peek?"

I glance at him, a little ruffled, before my eyes find my feet. "I didn't know it was supposed to be secret," I defend, for some reason feeling embarrassed by my curiosity.

Our dynamic is still tense some days. We haven't kissed since we were in the Capitol and that was only to fight off his hijacking. We haven't genuinely kissed, kissed because we wanted to, for nothing but our own simple pleasure, since the Quell, on the beach, the last night before we were separated.

Since before Peeta was taken by the Capitol. Since before he was hijacked.

But his memory is better now and the clouded, haunted look is long gone from his eyes. In it's place is the same brightness, the same instinctive kindness, the same gaze I used to see even in the worst of circumstances.

Still though, I don't always know what to say or not say. I don't know what our boundaries are now.

I know that his house and mine are always open to the other one. I don't have to knock or announce myself when I come over, and more times than not I return from hunting to find him situated at my kitchen table, waiting for me before cutting our breakfast bread.

I don't always know where our trauma ends and our friendship begins. I don't honestly know where we even stand anymore. From allies to friends to unconscious lovers to enemies and back, I get whiplash practically trying to decipher it, and I can't even imagine how much more confusing it must be for him, still after all this time.

He is more committed to that stupid over-the-phone therapy we've both had forced upon us though. He is committed like an old dog to a rotten bone to healing himself from the wounds Snow inflicted.

I'm about to find an excuse to leave the room, to more than likely leave his house altogether and go out to the woods, like I too often do when I'm at loss for words or things grow awkward, when his fingers touch under my chin. He gently lifts it up to meet his sky blue irises. "Come help me mix colors," he implores, his eyes enthusiastic and genuine.

I nod tentatively after a moment, following behind him, like a wide-eyed child. Like my sister used to follow behind me when we walked from the Seam to town and back.

He makes room for me at the table he's turned into his painting palette. On it resides papers upon papers, each covered with dozens of green variants.

"Peeta," I gap at him, my eyes getting wide. "How have you made all these shades?"

He scratches the back of his neck, blushing a little, and managing to get a moss color on his neck from the wet paint still situated on his fingertips.

I have the most insane urge to clean his neck off myself, to touch him there, as though a spot that's always displayed in plain sight could suddenly be so intimate.

I squash that desire so fast, I feel my temples pulse.

"I've been working on getting this color right for a few days now," he admits sheepishly.

I raise my eyebrow at him, a little more coy than I was only a minute ago. "A few days?"

"Okay, so it's been a couple of weeks."

I laugh then, really laugh, from the bottom of my stomach. It only last for a few seconds but it's such a rarity still that I ever feel that kind of unadulterated joy, and I choose to bask it for all it's worth.

It doesn't escape my notice though that I only ever have these rare moments in Peeta's vicinity. Not that I plan to openly share this—with anyone, really, but especially with him—but it's something I can't help but clock, even if just to myself.

Apparently I'm not the only one who finds my laugh significant, because when I look up at him again, Peeta is staring at me with a look of awe now shining in his gaze. A look I didn't realize until he was back in Twelve, until he was back mentally, until we had started on the memory book together, that he'd lost in his hijacking. It was a gaze I had seen in thousands of moments before, on the train, in the beds we shared at night, in the arenas, in my living room.

That shining look of awe in his eyes is just another thing I didn't realize how much I missed, how much it meant to me, until it returned. Another thing I didn't even realize Snow took away from me.

He breaks the silence between us again, his mouth turning up on one side, his eyes suddenly glazing over. For a moment I brace myself for a flashback, something that I have become accustomed to witnessing on a regular basis. He never loses his mind, he never snaps or thinks I'm a mutt or anything of the sort, but he'll grow quiet for a long moment and he'll clutch the underside of the table or the back of a close by chair, and shut his eyes until it's over.

But he isn't having a flashback now. Instead, his words are wistful and full of longing. "I miss hearing you laugh like that," he quietly says, unashamed. Like he's always said everything. Confidently, even when he wasn't.

I offer him a small smile in return before turning back to the paint covered table, segueing not as subtly as I wish. "Okay, so how am I supposed to help you make your ideal green color?" I turn to him and add in a teasing tone, "I'm not quite as experienced in frosting as you."

It has the desired effect and he comes to show me how to mix the paints properly, how to add in other colors to make a lighter or darker shade of green.

"So this is why the frosting on the cakes were always so intricate?" I ask after a couple of hours of us just blending paints together.

"Because I'm a perfectionist? No. Because I needed to get the cakes to sell quick enough that I wasn't forced to have the stale, crunchy ones for dinner. Over-the-top frosted cakes sells faster."

I shoot him a sad look at that. I always forget that while I had to work hard from a young age to bring food home to my family, Peeta got stuck with the leftovers no one from the entire district claimed.

Hours pass and I get so lost in mixing colors—okay, actually, I'm playing after a while, as Peeta continues to mix paints—that I don't realize until the sky outside turns dark that we skipped lunch and dinner.

"Peeta," I say, tugging at his arm with my now paint covered palm. "We have to eat."

He shakes his head though. "I've almost got the exact right shade."

I huff. "You need to feed yourself. Or else you'll pass out and I'll have to drag you to your bedroom and it'll be rough on us both."

"So it won't be any different than Sunday at Haymitch's?"

I laugh at that again, really laugh, and my stomach aches and cramps from the unused muscles waking back up after their long hibernation. "Come on," I urge.

"Katniss, I swear, I'm almost finished," he insists again, very solemnly. "Go get food from the bakery for both of us and I'll be done by the time you get back."

I let go of his arm, feeling myself deflate as I realize he's truly not budging. "I can't be the only one who goes to town with paint covered hands," I throw out there, as a last resort.

Without even looking away from the table, he adds, "and a paint covered face."

My brow furrows, confused, when he taps my nose with his wet finger. "Peeta!" I try to exclaim but it gets eaten up by my giggle, which is quickly overpowered by his.

"You told me once green was your favorite color!" He defends, holding up his hands.

I swipe my still wet sheets of paper off the table and fling them at him, effectively covering his cheek and the shoulder of his shirt in a soup of green.

"Oh, you aren't getting away with that," he promises and grabs me around the waist when I bolt for the door. "You couldn't even beat a man with one leg," he teases as he hoists me up and propels us both towards the wet paints again.

"Don't you dare," I threaten but my smile, one I can't repress, isn't letting me give the correct authenticity to my tone and in the end, he only smirks at my words.

A half hour later, I exit Peeta's house, having scrubbed my face the best I could in his bathroom sink. I only made the green fade from my cheeks and nose, not completely evaporate, and my neck is still strewed with flicks of the forresty shade.

My stained shirt is covered though as I pull on Peeta's jacket, having for once left mine in my own doorway, three houses down. Instead of going to fetch it, I choose take him up on the offer to borrow his, pretending it's about convenience and not because I like the way his smell of vanilla and cinnamon and something entirely his own lingers on all his clothing.

I use the key he gave me to the freshly rebuilt bakery and let myself in the backdoor, more so because that's where I'm most comfortable entering. Peeta's new bakery is almost identical in structure to the old one, and his mother would have never let me come in through the front, let alone trade my game over the counter instead of in the chilly back alleyway.

So many times I peaked inside the back, peered over the old baker's shoulder while he examined my squirrels. Majority of the times it was only to see the blazing hot oven, to fantasize about how it must feel to work with that kind of heat in the winter, to have heat so easily accessible at your fingertips that you can take it for granted. But sometimes it was also to catch a glimpse of what the inside must look like, my curiosity getting the best of me.

Being from the Seam, you so rarely had reason to enter a Merchant business. Being from the Seam, there was always a part of you that wondered what the other side of the community must live like.

Well, now I know. I have, really, since I became a victor and Peeta took me with him here on a seldom occasion to chat with his dad while he mother was gone.

I can't help but admire the handiwork of Thom and of many others in the community. They rebuilt the bakery—with assistance, both creatively and manually, from Peeta himself—in only a few months time and it looks like it was never decimated. The woodwork of the wall panels, the marble tile of the floor, the cream color of the walls.

It was like the old bakery, but made newer and fresher.

However, as I grab a loaf of bread and pastries—Peeta did say to get whatever I craved—I spot something out of the ordinary.

The walls visible to the customers in the front are reserved for Peeta to paint murals on, whenever he finds himself in the right mood to create whatever idea he has sitting inside his head. But the walls in the back are typically full of notes and lists and customer orders and—Peeta's own idea—thank you notes and cards from members of the community, who adore him even more now than they did before the war.

But all those things have been cleared away from a section of the wall space. There is a noticeably large blank space, right above the oven and counter, where no one else but Peeta will be able to view it.

It's maybe a little thing to be hung up on, but it strikes me as so strange I cannot stop thinking about it.

I choose to stop at the rebuilt Hob after I finish at the butcher's, offering Greasy Sae an extra pastry for her and her granddaughter.

She takes the offer with a sly look, handing me a container of soup to go with the bread.

"What?" I ask, unsettled a little by her glance, like she knows something I don't.

"I see someone's been painting," she just simply notes, gesturing with her chin to my green stained hand and wrist.

"Oh!" I catch on now. "Yeah, I was just helping Peeta."

The excuse doesn't seem to diminish the glint in her eyes. "Helping. Yeah, I'm sure."

I roll my eyes in her direction as I walk towards the door, calling out, "goodnight," evenly over my shoulder.

When I get back to Peeta's though, he isn't in his art studio. Instead he's in the kitchen, grabbing silverware and plates for us to eat. "Grab bowls too," I call as I plop our food down on his countertop. "Traded a pastry for some."

He shoots me a sardonic look now. "You know you don't have to trade for everything, right?"

"I like it more than spending money," I retort easily, slipping off his jacket. "I'm going to go scrub my hands in the bathroom again before we eat," I say, glancing at my still green digits.

"Well, hurry," he urges teasingly. "You have gotten me so used to eating things when they're fresh, I almost can't stand waiting anymore."

His hand playfully pushes on my back, propelling me towards to the stairs, and I have a hard time denying even to myself the thrill that runs through my body when him unexpectedly touches me.

I quickly wash and scrub as much paint off my palms and wrists as I can, drying hastily on the towel Effie definitely sent from the Capitol.

But I find myself with a sudden irrepressible urge, one not even the food downstairs or Peeta waiting can quench. As I pass by the art room, I see the painting he was so meticulously working on now sitting on his drying table, leaving the canvas empty.

I know I shouldn't invade his privacy but, after everything else we've been through, there isn't much he would keep from me.

At least, that's what I tell myself to rationalize my prying away as justifiable.

I walk to the table, as quietly as I do in the woods when hunting prey, as not to tip him off in case he is listening from the kitchen. I'm unprepared to offer my excuses for snooping to his face, despite the fact I can't picture him being too put out with me.

I am also utterly unprepared for the vision that awaits me in the now finished painting.

Laying flat on it's back, the painting stares directly up at me as I approach. The canvas displays a beautiful girl, with black hair and large grey eyes and a very endearing, bashful smile. There's a variety of flowers in her hair and in her hands she's holding a small bouquet of dandelions. There's a warm, glowing sunset behind her and a willow tree in the distance. It takes me a moment to realize, but her sweater is a dark shade of green, more pleasing to the eye than any leaf or shrub I've ever come across, even on the Victory Tour, in the most lovely botanical gardens the country had to offer.

The girl in the portrait is beautiful and shy and happy and you can see, even in a painting, that she doesn't enjoy having her image captured.

I have to blink six separate times before it finally registers that the girl is me. Her skin is a multitude of colors, varying shades from where something ate a part of her flesh away. But instead of that making her less attractive, it only serves in making her all the more stunning. Her skin is a gorgeous vision and I don't know how Peeta managed the impossible. I don't know how he managed to make me beautiful, but he did.

"Katniss?" I hear him call, and I jump at the sound of his voice ripping me out of the moment. His tone is light and playful, and I have to swipe my hand across my eyes to rid myself of the moisture that's leaked out before he sees. "You coming to dinner?" He asks from the bottom of the stairs and I give the lovely work of art one last look before I follow his voice, a rare, uncontrollable smile forming on my mouth as I shut the door behind me.

After everything else that's happened, only Peeta could make me feel like this.

/

A few weeks later.

I admire the bright yellow primroses, now in full bloom, the lightly blowing wind only complimenting their beauty and elegance instead of disturbing it.

I stare blankly at the flowers planted in my sister's honor. My sister who should be here now, should be stitching bleeding wounds and helping with the reconstruction of the town. My sister who should be admiring Peeta's frosted cakes and convincing me to dance with her in the living room by the fire. My sister who should have never been in the Capitol that day, should have been tucked away in Thirteen with our mother, should have never grown up as quickly as she was forced to or had her life stolen in a split second.

Peeta's fingers sift through my hair, unconsciously sensing the tension building in my body as I feel a rise of anger at all Coin and Snow took from me in the name of power.

I turn my head up to glance at him, craning my neck a little. I'm about to say something, I'm not sure what yet, but something to convey that I'm fine. Something to brush off what I assume are his concerns. But I'm surprised by what I see when I peer up. His face isn't what I expected.

Instead of concerned or curious, he's having his own sort of contemplation. Instead of even looking at me, he's staring up at the clear blue sky, watching the white puffs of clouds floating microscopically slow across the the way.

But his brow is furrowed and his mouth is turned down and he seems uncharacteristically miserable.

"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting up now. We'd been laying beside each other—maybe a little too close but neither of us seemed to mind—on the grass in my backyard, just trying to rest. We'd planned on working on new entries for the memory book today, but I hadn't slept at all last night and when he came over this morning to find me, still home and not in the woods, with my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, it was him who'd suggested a day off, relaxing in the grass under the sun.

He barely glances at me now, not really acknowledging my inquiry. "Nothing," he states simply and his hand touches mine for the briefest of seconds before pulling away.

"No, tell me what's bothering you," I insist defiantly. I don't know if it's the crankiness from lack of sleep or if I'm just fed up with having words left unsaid between us, but I'm not backing down.

"Katniss, come on," he says exasperatedly and his tone irks me further.

Instead of snapping and saying something I may regret later, I just shake my head at him, pushing myself upwards and beginning the walk back to the house, with every intention of abandoning our afternoon plans of relaxation. "Okay, wait!" He calls in retaliation and I feel him stretch to grip my hand in his again, only this time not dropping it after only a moment.

I relent and move backwards, sitting down to face him cautiously. I'm not worried that he's going to snap or harm me, not even in the slightest, but I am worried that both of us in foul moods-with our minds that are already teetering just on the edge of sanity-will lead to a painful, heated argument.

The last thing I want is to fight with Peeta. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I've come to rely far too heavily on his presence in my daily life. Driving him away is too agonizing to consider right now.

Peeta doesn't let go of my hand for a long beat and when he does, he does so in a slip so awkward it leaves me believing he didn't even realize he was still grasping it. "I was just thinking about Gale," he blurts out, his eyes wide and a little nervous.

I just stare at him though, waiting for him to elaborate. "You were thinking of Gale?" The name burns the inside of my mouth, the face of the person I once called my friend now only bringing the gut-wrenching image of my sister's last moments of life, as the bombs he potentially built floated from the sky down towards her and hundreds of other unexpecting children. "Wh-why were you thinking of Gale?" I press, my voice caught between shocked and angry.

But Peeta seems prepared for my strangled query. "I guess, I was thinking of every which way... I guess, I was really thinking of the possibility of Gale returning," he explains, and my blood turns to ice. My vision swirls at the very thought and I have to force myself to swallow as my throat suddenly feels very dry.

"Did you hear something I haven't? Do you know if he is coming back to Twelve?" I press as evenly as I can. It's fruitless though, as he shoots me a sympathetic—but still somewhat distracted—look.

"No," he promises, shaking his head. "No, I haven't heard anything about him. I'm just assuming that he will at some point-"

"Why?" I can't help but implore, my voice more aggravated than I intend.

Peeta gives me a look like the answer to my words is blatant. "Because this is is his home, Katniss. You're his home," he emphasizes.

"No," I instantly repel. "No, I'm not his home. Don't even say that. I-I'm not..." I can't seem to make the words come out intelligibility. Instead, I find myself choking on the sounds and syllables. "What even brought this on, Peeta? Why would you be thinking about this?"

At that, he shrugs and breaks his conflicted gaze away, leaving me boring deep into the side of his skull as if the answers I craved would be visible there. "I was happy," he offers quietly, after a long stretch of silence. "I was happy here with you and it got me thinking of all the ways this could be taken away from me."

Oh, I realize as his words hit me. Of course. Of course that's where his mind went. Because not so long ago, every single good thing in his life, from his family, to his home, to his freedom, to his sanity itself, were all viciously and mercilessly stolen. Of course Peeta has such little faith that anything good will last for him anymore.

Still though. To think of Gale as the thing to ruin our days together, our growing friendship, would almost be laughable if it wasn't so insane.

"Why him though?" I press, unable to comprehend his line of thinking. "Why did you think about him coming back?"

He shoots me the same look again, like he can't understand why I even have to ask. "Because that is one sure way you'd be done with me."

"What?" I exclaim, like he was speaking in a language I'd never heard before. "Why would that mean I'd be done with you?"

Now his expression turns downright exasperated and I feel like mine must match. "Because, Katniss. He's-he's..." He struggles with finding the proper wording again. Something that is so incredibly rare for Peeta Mellark that I don't even register it. "He's the one for you," he continues softly after a moment, no malice in his voice, just what he believes to be facts. "I knew that—I've always known that. Long before I knew much else about you, I knew that Gale and you were practically-"

"Peeta, stop," I cut off, maybe not soon enough. "Gale and me... no," I insist venomously. "No, he..." And if Peeta is struggling to speak, I'm know I'm obviously doomed right now. I take a breath and just stare into the blue pools in his eyes and force myself to speak, even if it's difficult, even if I'd rather be choking on a rusty nail right now. "I will never have anything to do with Gale again," I declare gently, doing my best to remain calm and steady.

Peeta shoots me a wary look and I suddenly have to question if he knows about Gale and the bombs. The question that can never be answered, the connection I'll never be able to prove or disprove, but know in my gut what the answer likely is.

He can't know, if he thinks there's a chance that I'd ever have any sort of relationship with Gale again.

"Peeta," I struggle to get out, feeling breathless before I've even began to utter any of it. "Gale is the one—or he might be the one, I don't know, I'll probably never know—who built or created or wha-"

But he's shaking his head rapidly, comprehension flickering across his face. "Katniss, I know," he says, and reaches out to squeeze my palm again. The unexpected touch sends a shock wave through my body but I'm too overwhelmed to really notice. "Haymitch told me about Gale's part in Prim's death."

I rip my hand away so fast, acting before thinking, betrayal spreading through my entire being before I have the chance to even process his words. "If you know that, why do you think I'd ever have anything to do with him again?"

Peeta is starting to really grind on my nerves with that incredulous look he keeps giving me. It's as if he cannot follow what I'm saying or thinks that I'm not seeing his side of the argument or something else that is quite obviously wrong.

How on earth could Peeta ever think that I would be able to look Gale in the eye after what he did? After what he might have done? Does the might of even make a difference? If there's any discrepancies between if he did or didn't murder Prim, how could I ever hold a conversation with him while that hangs between us? How could I meet his eyes and always be reminded I can never meet her's again? How could I ever trust someone like that, that made callous decisions in the heat of righteous anger? Someone who had no idea what it was like to be forced to murder and have it labeled a game. Someone who actively ignored the warnings of those who had? Who actively allowed himself to be used as a puppet for a radicalist who was no better than Snow himself?

Peeta's voice yanks me from my thoughts. "Because, Katniss," he starts gently, looking rather mournful, effectively softening my anger against him just a bit. "You forgave me. How am I any better?"

I just stare at him. "You couldn't help what you did, Peeta."

"Wasn't Gale used too? Just by Coin instead of Snow?"

"It's not the same thing."

"Why not?"

"You didn't possibly kill my sister. And God knows how many other kids," I finally say, the fight in my voice still hanging on.

"I almost killed you," he reminds me, as if I have forgotten.

"It's not the same thing, Peeta," I whisper again, my eyes more compelling, more insistent, than my voice now. He sees that, as he's gazing deeply into my steel colored irises.

He takes a deep breath, mulling over his words before speaking them aloud. I realize then he must have been thinking about this for a while. The concept disturbs me for some reason. Like he's been having this debate in his head without me and I'm late to the event. Like he was actively having this argument already and didn't think to even get my side of the story first. "What if Snow had programmed me to kill Prim instead of you? Then would you have forgiven me?"

I have to look away at that moment because I outright don't know what to say. Would I have been able to ever forgive him for it, for trying to murder my little sister while not in his right mind? Would I have been able to look past it, to see that he was used and abused and destroyed to get to me? Or would I have been so stuck on the idea of anything hurting Prim that all his trauma would have become background noise? Would Gale be the one here now, having this conversation with me, while I was denouncing Peeta's name?

I can't give him an answer and we swore not to lie to each other, in light of everything we've been through, so instead I turn my eyes up to look into the forlorn blue skies I've become so accustomed to and say the only thing I know is true. "I honestly don't know, Peeta."

He nods at that, almost immediately accepting my honestly. Almost like he anticipated those words from me. And he offers me a small smile before standing himself up off the grass and walking towards the backdoor to my house. "I'm going to head home for the day," he says quietly, with no resentment in his voice.

My heart sinks at his words, as some long stifled string inside of me wishes to attach onto him and hold him here with me. To refuse to let him leave until that forlorn edge evaporates from his gaze. But something more prevalent, more powerful, is also churning inside of me, something that cannot stand being withheld even for a day, and I find myself calling out his name against my better judgment.

"Peeta!" I exclaim urgently, my voice rocky and scratched.

He turns and looks at me, his eyes curious to what I could have to say. And I don't know what else to utter, but the truth. The misunderstanding I'm irrationally unsettled by, the misconception that I can't continue to let fester inside his head.

"Gale was never the one for me."

Peeta blinks in surprise at the blatant assertion. He opens up his mouth to speak several times, confusion marring his features, but nothing comes out.

And in case he somehow wants to rationalize my statement away, in case somewhere in his head the demon Snow planted is trying to squash any assurance my statement may inspire, I repeat myself again.

"Gale was never the one."

/

A month later.

"Haymitch, come on," I mutter, pushing my old mentor towards the front door. "Go home. Sleep off the alcohol."

The older man murmurs something equally unintelligible and also somehow still undoubtedly rude at me, shoving my hands away from his back, where I'm trying to aim him in the direction of the exit.

"The boy is much gentler," he snaps, swaying heavily with his vigorous words.

"We have always agreed that Peeta is superior to me. You can go to his house if you want him to tuck you in tonight."

Haymitch guffaws at that, out of his skull. "Now wouldn't that make you jealous?"

"Get out!"

"Night night, Sweetheart."

After he's gone, I lock the door in case he tries to come back, tries to raid my kitchen again or use my couch as a free bed.

Nothing is more freighting than thinking I'm alone in my house and then seeing a man sleeping in my living room, first thing in the morning.

As I head upstairs though, I realize what I just did. Giving Haymitch the idea to go to Peeta's house, to torture him with his inebriation like he does me, and I wonder if Peeta's angry with me now.

Not real, long lasting anger, of course. Just simple irritation. But still, as I change into my pajamas and brush out my braid, I wonder if I've now destroyed Peeta's night.

At first the idea of our mentor giving Peeta a hard time tonight still doesn't seem like a too terrible situation to me. Peeta's definitively the one that will put up with the tiresome antics of the old drunk until he can't any longer. He's the one who will be more likely to have mercy on a sloshed Haymitch and let himself lose sleep, too kind for his own good.

But then it hits me that when Peeta loses too much sleep, when his insomnia kicks in, or when commotion keeps him awake, he surely has a flashback the following day. Resting later into the day doesn't help either, as any disruption to his sleep schedule can really mess with him good.

I feel myself rush to the window across from my bed, peering out to look three houses down, to see if I can spot the paunchy old man heading in that direction.

I see nothing and no one. It's the black of night, in the middle of winter. No one else lives in what used to be Victor's Village, aside from us three. The road between our houses is cold and wet and entirely void.

Still, I try to squint, to see if I can make anything out over at Peeta's.

His light is off. That much I can tell. The light in his bedroom is turned off, the room is too dark to see into, porchlight is turned off, and all this indicates he's fast asleep, Haymitch went home to his own house and I have nothing to worry about.

However, something else catches me attention then. Peeta's window. It's open. Just like it used to be. Just like before the Quarter Quell. Even in the middle of winter, in the darkest part of the night, he's always kept his bedroom window open.

I tell myself it's paranoia, or it's neighborly kindness. But I decide to open my window as well, in case I hear Haymitch pounding on Peeta's door and disturbing him at an ungodly hour. In case I hear Haymitch causing a ruckus outside Peeta's house and I have to go get him before he causes any massive disturbance.

I tell myself it's because I feel guilt and not because I miss Peeta, even in my sleep.

Especially in my sleep.

I doze off, desperately forcing myself to believe that lie.

When I wake up three hours later, it's not because Haymitch is making noise. No, he hasn't made a peep that I could hear since I kicked him out.

No, I wake up because of a wholly unexpected cacophonous sound.

I wake up because Peeta is screaming.

Peeta is screaming loud, on top of his lungs, like someone is holding a knife or a gun to his throat at this very moment.

It's a sound I recognize instinctively. And not because it resembles the version of him that was rescued and brought to Thirteen.

No, I recognize the sound because it sounds eerily similar to the noises I make from nightmares of the same events, because of flashbacks of the same memories.

Most victors understand each other to varying degrees. We've all lived through literal hells, we've all had our trauma projected across the country, we've all been through horrible ordeals that almost no one else could ever empathize with.

However, most victors didn't win their games together. Most victors don't know what anyone else's personal nightmares are about. Most victors can't even imagine what any of the others are seeing, in any shadow of a dark room. In a the cobwebs of our minds that not even the most proficient doctor can clear. Most victors can't see the haunting reflection in the dark smeared glass that remains unique to each individual victor.

Except me and Peeta. Except us, the once Star-Crossed Lovers, the girl on fire and the baker's boy, the two mouthpieces of opposing sides of war.

The two of us understand each other on a level deeper than anyone else on the planet can even begin to imagine, and it's this fact that draws me thoughtlessly out of my bed at the sound of his cries, and over the threshold and down the street before I even realize what I'm doing. Before I can contemplate it and think my way out of doing it.

I pound on his door, turning my palm pink with the applied force. "Peeta?" I exclaim but all I hear in response is a gut-wrenching howl in pain. I worry for a moment that he's managed to injury himself somehow. That he's lost his prosthetic in his own frenzy and now is lying helpless on the ground.

I take a chance, pleading silently for the door to be unlocked as I turn the knob.

I'm not sure if I should be grateful that Peeta doesn't lock his doors before going to sleep—he doesn't even close his windows though, so how can I be surprised?—but for the moment I bask in the one lucky instance and make a mental note to yell at him tomorrow for it.

My tired, cold legs shoot up the stairs, racing towards his bedroom blindly through the darkness. "Peeta?" I call out again, quieter now than before, not wanting to give him a heart attack.

After all, an intruder, just about any intruder-even my own mother-appearing in my house in the dead of night, would probably knock me unconscious from the adrenaline overload that would surely overtake me.

Because unlike Peeta, I do lock my door—every single door in my house—at night, the image of anyone coming to hurt me while I'm asleep and at my most vulnerable too powerful for me to rationalize away.

But Peeta doesn't hear my voice now and even without any light, I easily locate his bedroom. Despite the fact I've never been in it before. That revelation occurs to me as I'm about to open the door.

Even in our closest and most sacred moments together, I never once set foot inside his bedroom. I'd barely even walked into his house prior to coming back to Twelve after the war. And when I did come here now, we typically stayed in the kitchen or art room for some reason.

All this races through the back of my mind as I push the door open and reveal Peeta, tangled up in his bed sheets, bare-chested and sleeping in only his pajama pants. His fingers clawing at the wall ferociously, his eyes wild as the deer I hunt, when they realize I'm there at the very last second before the arrow pierces their hearts.

"Peeta," I whisper now, my concern for what must have set him off overtaking any qualms I may still have. I try to tell myself to be careful and keep a safe distance, as I don't know if he's himself right now or if he's once again the loaded weapon Snow broke him down and turned him into.

But when he looks at me, his blue eyes wide and wet and terrified and awed, like he thinks I'm nothing but a dream, I can't make myself believe he's anyone but the boy who saved my life years ago. So many years ago now, it seems.

And when he whispers my name and blindly, instinctively, desperately, reaches for me, I just can't make myself stay away. Without hesitating, I lunge forward and for the first time since the Quarter Quell, I throw myself straight into his arms, like I belong there.

My arms wrap around his neck and I feel him pull my body to his, pulling me down against him, molding our two shaky forms together as one. He pulls my legs around his waist and wraps me in a hug so tight my ribs physically hurt and I can't even breathe.

I burrow my face into the skin of his throat, inhaling his scent in an unabashed, reckless act, and turn my cold cheek to lay against his rapid beating heart.

"I thought you were dead," is the first thing he whispers, as the tears still running down his face hit my forehead.

"I'm not," I promise, trying to make my voice convincing, even as I'm reeling by this sudden turn of events.

I never, in a million years, thought I'd ever end up in his arms like this again. This embrace, this comfort, is something else I truly believed Snow had stolen away from me.

"I dreamed you died," he whimpers again, like he didn't hear me.

"I'm here, Peeta. I heard you having a nightmare and I came. As fast as I could." I don't know why I feel the need to tell him this information, but when his trembling starts to lessen I feel slightly validated.

"I lost you," he whispers, his voice hoarse and broken.

"You couldn't lose me if you tried." The words come out without warning, and I'm glad somehow. I'm so tired of words being held back or dropped between us, of neither of us knowing what to say to the other. Of shoving down what we're both really feeling.

Even if right now may be the worst time for declarations, with Peeta exhausted and upset and visibly traumatized, I still feel relief spread all over my body, for having the guts to say what I'm thinking for once.

I see the wheels beginning to turn now, in his bloodshot, puffy eyes as he slowly begins to process the last couple of minutes that's brought us back into the position we held nightly only one year ago.

Has it really only been a year?

I expect then for him to recoil away from me, or apologize even, citing that he doesn't know what possibly came over him. But, to my surprise, he does none of that. Instead Peeta hugs me tighter to him, pulling up the covers he'd kicked away, effectively sheltering us beneath their protective warmth.

"Stay," he whispers into my hair, his arms shaking as they become a soothing balm around me, leaving me feeling safe in a way I refuse to ask for. Giving me back a refuge I considered all but gone. "Please, Katniss, stay with me?"

Without thinking twice, without giving myself a chance to second-guess the words, I whisper into his chest, exactly where I can feel his beating heart, "Always."

Chapter Text

A couple months later.

We slide back after that. I don't know if that night-the night he had a nightmare that I died and we slept locked in each other's embrace-moved too quickly for Peeta or if he thought he was protecting me from him, but when morning light came, he was gone from the bed.

I didn't see him again until the following evening, helping Haymitch feed his rambunctious geese in the yard. He didn't speak to me for four more days after that, and when he did, it was to ask what kind of bread I wanted him to bring for lunch the next day.

I pretended to his face that it didn't hurt. That waking up in a cold, empty bed, in a house he all but abandoned until I had evacuated, that sleeping in his arms and awaking so abruptly alone, didn't hurt. I did what I had taught myself to do as a child and I turned my features into an indifferent mask, shutting off all access to my emotions. Destroying any possibility of anyone witnessing my vulnerabilities.

But I knew deep down, it did hurt. It hurt badly.

I didn't speak to him directly the first week he showed up for lunch and to work on the memory book again. I got by fine without addressing him directly, as Haymitch somehow sensed the bubbling tension between us and stayed sober just enough to remain alert for all our shared meals. He helped with the memory book, helped by adding in a snarky comment here or there to reel our focuses onto him instead of each other.

I wanted to say thank you but I never knew how. I doubt Haymitch needs me to verbalize it anyway. One night, as he follows behind Peeta to leave, his hand grazes my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and I know he's much more aware of the dynamic between his old tributes than he leads on.

But weeks after the night in question, the night that set Peeta and my friendship back months, we receive a telegraph from Effie. A telegraph that shakes the small amount of stability we've managed to build in the time since the war.

Apparently President Paylor has decided to move forward with arena destruction, an idea mentioned a few times by Plutarch on Caesar's talk show. An idea I didn't take seriously until now.

Paylor has decided to build a memorial for each of the arenas, for each year the games ever took place, to immortalize our history, so Panem can never forget how cruel and inhumane things once were. But first, she wants to eliminate the actual hunger games arenas, once and for all, before putting the memorials in their place.

My initial thought, months ago when Delly showed me Plutarch and Caesar discussing the idea, was that this would takes years to happen.

I was, once again, so clearly wrong. The plans have been expedited and the order in which each arena will be decimated has been swiftly decided.

All that alone doesn't sound terrible. I'd like to see those death pits crushed, burned, torn down, eradicated, or all of the above, by any means necessary. Only downside, initially, is that this will extend me—and Peeta and potentially all the other victors—remaining in the forefront of the public's mind.

Since the war, all I've ever wanted was for everyone in the country to forget who I am. I don't want to be known anymore. I just want to be left alone, to a quiet and peaceful and relatively simple life, without anyone ever recognizing me again. Without anyone thinking of me as the girl on fire, as the Mockingjay, as the sixteen-year-old who volunteered for a sister who was doomed to death anyway.

But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

Plutarch thinks it would be great to have the living victors be there—televised—in the Capitol and see the arenas before they're bulldozed.

Even with this dreadful proposition, I thought I had time to think of a way out of it. When Effie first sent the telegraph, I thought that I would have years before having to worry about going back to the places where my nightmares started.

Well, some of my nightmares, that is.

After all, it takes time to destroy something as large and as vast as an arena-excluding the way I destroyed the one in the Quell, that is. I figured-I rationalized, really-that by the time they got to number Seventy-Four, I would have a solid excuse to get out of attending.

I guess though they wished to start with the big years and the first decade of the Hunger Games wasn't very eventful, apparently—lucky them—so the first arena they wish to bid farewell to is the one from the second Quarter Quell. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The one that was so strikingly beautiful and almost entirely poisonous.

The year Haymitch Abernathy, from the lowly District Twelve, won.

And being also from Twelve, my presence, along with Peeta's, suddenly became of the utmost importance as well.

At first, I still try to opt out of the event. Even after Effie chastises me over the phone, like not a day has passed since she was my escort, and even after my mother claims in her letter that it could be cathartic for me, I do not relent.

Delly and Thom and a few of the others in the community, like Kanon who runs the candy shop two stores away from the bakery, and Greta, who helps with the dusting and mopping all over town, try to say that it could be good for me. Greasy Sae claims it can't be worse than actually living through the games, and I silently appreciate her much more blatant statement than the comforting platitudes others try to provide me.

But it all falls on deaf ears in the end.

Because the only person I truly listen to is Peeta. Even bitter and wounded, the only person I really hear is him.

Unfortunately, as irritating as it is sometimes, his voice will always reach me when others can't.

But we don't ever have an actual conversation about it. Five days after Effie calls to announce the news, to tell me unequivocally that my presence is requested, Peeta sways me to go with just a look.

He comes over later than usual and brings extra bread and pastries to go with the deer meat I hunted. We feast silently, the air between us still incredibly awkward, when, without warning, our old mentor comes crashing through the door unceremoniously.

I don't know how much alcohol he consumed, but it's enough to knock even someone with Haymitch's tolerance off his feet.

By the end of the hour, the older man is practically beating his head into the wall of my dining room, screaming the names of dead children and about force fields and axes. And from across the kitchen table, Peeta touches my arm—the first time he's voluntarily touched me in weeks—and my eyes meet his, blue pouring into gray, and silently he begs me to go for the goodbye ceremony to Haymitch's arena.

And I give in. Not just for him. But also, in large part, to repay the caustic, miserable drunk that kept us alive. To support the unpredictable, temperamental man that I do consider my family somehow.

The ceremony is set to take place weeks later and the time does little to alleviate my anxiety. Peeta and me still don't speak much, but come time for lunch or dinner, there he is, in my house like clockwork.

When I point out, a few days before we're due at the train station, that there's a very realistic possibility that the Capitol won't let me go to the ceremony, Peeta casually says, "I already cleared that with Effie and Plutarch."

I shoot him a look of surprise. "You did?"

Shrugging nonchalantly before turning back to the rabbit on his plate, he murmurs quietly, "Thought it'd give you one less thing to worry about."

The ceremony is nothing like I expect. Somehow I figured there would be an obnoxiously large television crew, loud speakers, prepared speeches on written cards, awkward directions and crowds upon crowds of people surrounding us, asking pointed questions, shooting invasive stares and pressing for reactions to their nosy accusations. I expected those accusations to be directed at me and Peeta especially.

Instead, there's none of those things. There's no crowd at all, it's just us victors. Just Enobaria, Johanna, Annie, the three of us from Twelve and Beetee—who I still can't make myself so much as look at, reminded of my sister's absence and his role in it every time we so much as stand in five feet vicinity of each other.

The camera crew consists of Mitchell, Pollux and Cressida, along with two unfamiliar, but seemingly non-threatening faces. There's no directions, no prompting, not close ups or reshoots.

All that happens is Paylor makes a statement that the crew films, stating that the arenas will be destroyed one by one, and in the place of each there will be an individual memorial made, as we victors stand in an unorganized, crooked line that will surely make Effie cringe when she sees the footage on television later.

It's almost peaceful, I think to myself in surprise, as I look around at the location. The sky is a stunning cobalt, even more brilliant in person than in the video Peeta and I watched on the train so long ago. The meadow looks like the grass is fresh, like it was just watered yesterday. The mountain is so breathtaking I have to physically tear my eyes away from it and even the woods look rather cozy. Or maybe that part is just me.

There's also arraignments of flowers, just like in the footage we watched, that spill every which way, filling our noses with soothing, floral scents. It feels unnatural to say about a place set up for murder, but with the deadly poisons lurking at every turn eviscerated, I almost can find this arena truly beautiful.

Of course though, it's not my arena.

It's Haymitch's and he looks like he's about to be sick. He's white-knuckled it for a few days without any sort of drink—to my, Peeta's and, even Effie's, visible shock—and I can see plainly now that he's absolutely regretting it. His eyes are hallow and wild at the same time and I can see his shaking palms beneath the sleeves of his jacket as he stares out at the source of his every nightmare for the last quarter century.

It shocks me that he didn't find a way out of this. Actually, it shocks me still that these ceremonies are even possible.

I never knew they kept arenas after the games were over each year. I never realized they kept all seventy-four death pits, haunted by child sacrifice, the way you keep old vases on a shelf.

At this point though, it's just another thing to add onto the growing list of horrific and unthinkable issues that the Capitol doesn't even grasp. Keeping the haunted graveyards of children as souvenirs shouldn't sit right with anyone, I don't care how you're raised.

I tell myself to not be so quick to judge, as I can't know who I'd be if I had been born in the Capitol instead of the districts. Still, the idea of condoning the things they have without remorse or shame seems unthinkable.

I'm torn out of my thoughts when Cressida speaks. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Haymitch, before we finish filming?"

Once again, catching me off-guard entirely—he's full of all sorts of surprises evidently—Haymitch clears his throat and looks down at his leather boots before speaking. "Ardor. Garnett. Dolan. Silver. Ryker. Artemis. Slayte. Pistol. Lex. Mac. Lumen. Gig. Brook. Aqua. Mary. Ripley. Lyme. Watt. Rocky. Gio. Belle. Raven. Kia. Mecko. Barker. Jack. Holly. Briar. Essie. Stitch. Coco. Paul. Mira. Miller. Coop. Harvey. Butch. Cutter. Bea. Skinna. Basil. Sunny. Rip. Spring. Oaker. Terra. Maysilee." He lists off the names in a way that is so matter-of-fact that it would almost be robotic if it weren't for the hoarseness in his tone that grows stronger with every name he utters. He hesitates for only a moment before adding, "Corentine. Alannah. Alastar."

There's a long stretch of silence, where no one speaks, no one blinks, no one even breathes. We all know instinctively who these people are—I know solely from Maysilee Donner's name being called—but we still wait until Haymitch speaks again, to confirm our assumption.

"Those are the names of all the people this arena killed." His eyes grow glassy and his brow furrows in anger as he fights desperately to repress his emotions, and suddenly I have the strangest urge to hug my mentor, to make him feel better like he tried to do for me once when Peeta was stuck in the Capitol and I was distraught. But I know it wouldn't be appreciated or wanted, and quite honestly I'm glad for that, because I don't even know what to say.

The last three names Haymitch said stick in my head for some reason I can't explain other than an odd gut feeling. But then he speaks again, an in a voice growing gruffer by the second, he says right into the camera, "that's every single person who was killed because of the second Quarter Quell."

And, like I should have known all along, it hits me the last three names are the names of his family who were murdered to punish him for the stunt with the forcefield.

The last three names are the murders of the last people he loved. Until me and Peeta came along.

As if his thoughts matched mine, Haymitch suddenly shakes his head and his eyes widen again as he stares past all the rest of us, as he continues to take in the exact place in which life as he knew it, twenty-six years ago, was altered forever.

His reaction is more understandable and genuine than I imagined he would ever allow it to be, especially on camera, and I want to say something but me and him both aren't good at saying anything, and I find myself looking to Peeta, hoping he'd know what to do.

Peeta doesn't meet my gaze though. He's solely focused on our mentor and just when he opens his mouth to speak, the older man to suddenly shake his head in our general direction and clears his throat.

"I'm done. Tell Plutarch I'm done with this crap. Just hurry up and bulldoze this place so I can go back to Twelve," is all he says to Cressida as he storms off, but his voice is rough and caustic once again, and I can only hope he recovers from this event soon enough.

Somehow, witnessing Haymitch relive his games, even through the shield he so obviously puts up to the outside world, triggers me though. For some reason, I feel my eyes begin to water as I look around at the meadow, at the mountain, at the golden cornucopia, and wonder how anyone could build a place where kids would eventually go to die? How could anyone have ever been so inhumane? How could a country just accept it? How did we live for so long with the Hunger Games overtaking our lives and still remained complicit? I don't understand. The more time passes, the more days I'm separated from the war and from the old world and the old way of life, I just can't comprehend anymore how we ever lived in a place so horrific.

I feel my eyes spill over and I'm grateful that Cressida has stopped filming already, because if Plutarch saw any tears on film, he would make certain it ended up on television.

I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, trying to go about it as subtly as I can, hoping no one else notices. For the most part, I'm golden. Enobaria is already exiting, with Beetee following not far behind. Jo's back is to me while she speaks to Annie, though as per usual, she seems to be irritated.

Of course, it's too much to ask for everyone to remain oblivious to my waterworks. Even as I rid myself of them before they become widely noticeable, I feel Peeta's eyes train on me and know, despite the distance between us for the last few weeks, he isn't going to ignore my upset.

To my surprise though, he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single syllable.

Instead, I feel his large, warm palm slip into mine and squeeze tightly, lacing our fingers together, in a way we have done thousands of times before. Like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a picture, like two indivisible teammates that will fight against anything that is thrown their way, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other, his hand grasps mine with a vengeance and I know I won't be the one who let's go.

He's still holding my hand when we board the train, hours later.

//

A couple weeks later.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenstead, I will get the chocolate nut loaf and a platter of the cranberry cookies wrapped up for you... Yes, it will be ready by the time you arrive... No, I promise they won't be cold," Peeta assures through the bakery telephone—a new addition that Thom and his wife thought was necessary to run a proper bakery. So necessary they bought it for Peeta as an opening gift.

It's not that the gesture wasn't nice or that Peeta didn't deeply appreciate it. I personally saw that he did, wholeheartedly.

But seeing it on the wall every day was just another reminder to me of my own personal vendetta against the integration between the Capitol's way of life and the districts'.

The only place telephones used to exist, outside of the Capitol limits, was the houses in Victor's Villiage, and if I'm being honest, I wish it would have stayed that way.

Maybe I'm being selfish, as I happen to still reside inside a house that once belonged to the said village, therefore I already had experienced this luxury prior to the new world. But I just can't make myself break the association between the items that had recently become readily available for all and the horror that was the Capitol.

Still though, the change was inescapable Telephones, cameras, heating pads, curling irons, quick bake ovens, cars and so many other items, were all growing in popularly across each district. Not that I was able to see a lot of these changes personally. But letters from Annie and my mom, and the occasional—unprompted and yet still begrudged—call from Jo, all kept me informed. Sometimes more informed than I wished to be.

Maybe I would feel entirely different if these inventions were brand new to me. But they aren't. I'd seen and used every one of them before. Their novelty had always been lost on me, perhaps because my only experience them was while inside the Capitol, surrounded by tacky colors and strong rose scents and itchy materials, headed for a death match, my life and the lives of those I cared always at great risk.

Of course, the new item in the bakery did make some things easier. Days like today are a perfect example.

Harvest Day is only one day away and everyone is coming in for their breads and their desserts. Peeta says it was always one of the most popular days, for as long as he can remember. Only difference is, before the war only Peacekeepers and town folks could afford to purchase anything. And generally, most citizens who even did come in, could only purchase a limited amount of items.

Not now. I don't know where everyone in Twelve was coming up with the money or if Peeta's prices are just a drastic drop from that of his mother's, but today, I swear I've seen every citizen in town inside the bakery.

Makes me glad that the portrait of me is hanging in the back, where no one else can see it. As pretty as it may be, as talented as Peeta is, I don't want a giant version of me displayed for all to see.

"Here you are," I politely say, handing two loaves of warm bread to a man who must be new to Twelve, as I've never seen him before. I'm debating on asking if he moved here recently when he passes a bill to me over the top of the pastry display.

"Thank you, hon." He smiles at me, looking at me a little too closely for my liking, as he swiftly walks out the door. His exit is met with the arrival of Val, a boy Peeta and I went to school with, who definitely was more Peeta's crowd than mine.

Val is a regular customer at the bakery, having always genuinely liked the Mellark family. His parents owned a small carpentry shop four spaces down from the bakery, and even with both them dead, he and his two sisters rebuilt the store, taking over their parents' legacy.

Peeta though is more focused on me now than Val's order. "Give me a second," he calls to his old friend, a little less polite than he had been all morning. "Katniss, what's wrong?" He asks urgently, seeing the look in my eyes.

I shake my head and push away the anxiety threatening to close in on me. "Nothing, just..." I hesitate, not even wanting to say it. Peeta's gaze refuses to lessen though and I sigh before finally mumbling, "That guy. He creeped me out. The way he was looking at me so closely..."

Peeta's hand touches my arm for a brief moment before pulling it away, making it obvious that he regrets the small act of even so much as touching me. But his words are still calming and they relax me a little. "He's gone now, Katniss. And if he scares you, I won't let him come back, okay? There's nothing anyone can do to you or me anymore. We're safe."

I nod, knowing the words like the back of my hand at this point, as it's the same mantra we always repeat to each other, every time one of us begins to panic or flail. But still, I open my mouth to refuse his offer. I don't want Peeta to turn away any sort of business. Not with the unpredictability and uncertainty this new world still rests on. We never know if the bakery will sell anything tomorrow or if all sort of income will soon dry up.

And we're the lucky ones, financially speaking, who were rich before the war and allowed—in a generous declaration by President Paylor—to keep the entirety of our money after. I don't have to imagine the anxiety others in the country must be in, knowing the curse of poverty all too well. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone.

"I don't want you to turn away people," I say quietly. "Not on my account. You need business to keep this place afloat."

"I have plenty of money, Katniss," he reminds me, a little darker than I expect. "And I'd rather you feel safe than own a popular shop."

His words unexpectedly touch me, unexpectedly cut right down to the depth of my bones, exposing my soft underbelly. I'm about to do something stupid, like touch his hand, when Val makes his presence known again. "Your shop is already the most popular in the district," he points out, not even a little ashamed for having listened to our conversation. "And besides, why don't you just look at the guy's name? Maybe you can look him up, see if he's alright or not."

Peeta gets a glint in his eye. "That's a good idea, Val, thank you." As he moves towards the register to, I can only suppose, look for the man's receipt with his name and signature, he gestures to his school friend. "Katniss can get your order."

I shoot him a glare, only half kidding. I did come to help out, here and there, today but I did not intend to be an actual expected employee. For free, no less.

Instead of saying anything though, I just grab Val his three cinnamon rolls, his two snack cakes, four bagels, white chocolate donut and a loaf with raisins and cranberries.

Val, like Delly Cartwright, was always one of the few people in Twelve who had a few pounds to spare.

Peeta has a type of friend.

"Found it," Peeta now calls, bringing over a slip of paper to where I'm handing Val his three bags of treats. "His name was Rod Catamaran."

Me and Val, for the first time perhaps, exchange a look between us. "That's an odd name for Twelve."

"I've never even heard that name before."

"He may not even be from Twelve, guys," Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. "Because a bombed out district is really a tourist attraction."

"Hey, none of that," Thom calls as he walks through the front door of the bakery, with Kanon Bagley on his heels. "We've rebuilt this place beautifully and negativity is not appreciated here."

"Yeah, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, teasing me. I'm about to kick him in his only real leg, as we're the only two behind the counter and no one else will see, when Kanon speaks up.

"Can I buy a couple of pastries?"

"Of course," Peeta says kindly, walking around me to personally grab the two items Kanon requests.

Kanon is new to Twelve. One of the few new additions this place gained after all that went down. He's a large man in his early twenties, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes to match. But the only times I've ever interacted with him, he's quiet as a mouse, his eyes a little forlorn at all times and he offers more discounts then he should at the candy shop he recently opened next to the bakery.

He's from District Eleven originally and it takes no real critical thinking to realize he had a hard life, even before the war.

I'm far too familiar with the look of scars etched across the eyes. So is Peeta.

That's why, when Kanon looks down at the money in his hand and realizes he doesn't have enough to afford both pastries, Peeta immediately brushes it off. "That's okay, they're on the house," he instantly promises, handing the small bag over to Kanon with a gentle smile.

"No, I don't want to take it without-"

"I made way too much," Peeta insists, lying outright to make it appear Kanon would be doing him a favor. I know he didn't make too much, because we've been flying through everything today and keeping the ovens hot in case more is needed.

Still though, I back up the fib. "He did. We've been wondering all day how we were gonna sell enough stuff so we don't have to feed the leftovers to Haymitch's geese."

Kanon glances between us shyly, before taking the bag from Peeta's hand and slipping the few dollars he does have into his pocket again. "Thank you," he says softly and turns to leave.

Thom pats Kanon on the back as he passes him, before turning to follow. When the other man isn't looking, he turns back to us subtly and mouths, "thank you."

I wanted to tell him not to thank me. I only watched Peeta make this food, I didn't assist by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't own the bakery or do anything with the money or finances. It was not my choice to give things away for free.

But I'm far too focused on the boy in front of me to say any of that. The boy with the bread, the boy who isn't really a boy anymore. The boy who just gave away food for no reward at all, even on the most demanding and strenuous day all year for his business. The boy who just showed Kanon Bagley the same kindness I begged someone-anyone-to show me at eleven-years-old and not one single person did.

Except for him. He did for me all those years ago what he did for Kanon just now, and I suddenly have the most inexplicable, irrepressible urge to kiss Peeta right then and there, in the middle of the bakery.

I don't, however, and it's for once not because I lost my courage. It's because the door swings open again, just as Val exits right behind Kanon and Thom.

It's the same man from earlier. "Hi," Peeta greets, this time not at all sweet. Clearly recognizing the man as the one who made me nervous before. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man affirms, his tone brighter than you'd expect given our chilly reception. And our blatant wariness for anyone new. "I forgot to get a pecan butter cake before?"

There is a beat where me and Peeta exchange a look, before I awkwardly move towards the display case and begin to pack up his item. Peeta waits for me to decide to help the man before starting to ring him up.

"That was a nice thing you both just did," the man says as he patiently watches me fold the white waxy paper over his pastry. "For that guy."

"You were watching?" Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

"Only for a moment," he explains, his tone still friendly. Either he doesn't know how to read people at all or he's the most even keeled person in Panem.

Because I know I'm being rude, to a man who maybe doesn't even deserve it, I force myself to say one thing conversational. "This is my mom's favorite dessert," I offer, gesturing to his cake.

The man raises his eyebrows in an act that looks almost feigned. "Really?"

I instantly regret trying to be even slightly pleasant. Even his mannerisms seem fake. I'm contemplating if I should say anything else or go hide in the back room with the warm ovens and my portrait, when Peeta presses a button and the register dings.

He's about to say the total when the strange man shakes his head and hands to me directly an unfamiliar bill over the display case. "Have a nice day, you two," he calls, grabbing his cake and swiftly walking out.

It's not until he's gone, not until I have a moment to process the second weird encounter with the odd person, that I even glance down at the crisp bill he handed me.

It's a bill with a larger number on the back than I've ever personally seen before. I knew these kinds of dollars existed—I'm sure I could have gotten plenty after my first games—but I'd never seen one in the flesh.

Peeta sees my reaction. "What is it?" His voice sounds alarmed and he's stepping closer to me, but all I can do is gasp out his name.

"Peeta, look." I hold up the bill and point to the number on the back.

His eyes widen too, taking in the amount with a dizzy smile. Of both relief that nothing's wrong and excitement at the digit.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" I ask suddenly, looking over my shoulder towards the window, wondering if we should track the man down and give him his money back, before he evaporates into thin air.

"No?" Peeta shakes his head, the wheels in his mind turning quicker than mine. His face turns to that of elation, as the large bill takes some pressure off the bakery's sales. "No, he said he saw us give Kanon a break. He was giving us something in return."

I'm about to say something else, I don't even know what, but it all flies out of my head when Peeta suddenly wraps his arms around my waist and swiftly pulls me into his embrace.

My entire body goes into lockdown and hypervigilance at the same time. I can't move an inch but it feels like every nerve in my body is abruptly tingling and on fire.

My sweater lifts up slightly and his bare arms graze my lower back, eliciting a shiver to run involuntarily down my spine as his face buries into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his neck after a beat when I can make myself move again, and I feel him smile against my skin. I'm so glad at that moment he's holding me up, because if he wasn't supporting my weight I'd probably crash to the floor, unable to even feel my legs beneath me.

And, as a rush of heat shoots out from the place where Peeta's lips brush my collarbone, I suddenly feel only gratitude, not irritation, at the strange Rod Catamaran.

//

Four days later.

The world surrounding me is green. Green and brown and fire-bitten and scorched. Every which way I spin, there's embers soaring from that direction too, waiting to lick me with their burning flames, ready to decimate me once and for all.

But through the smoke and haze, I still can see between the trees two blonde braids. I still can see a small figure standing on the other side of the fire. I still can see her shirt that's come untucked in the back, creating a duck tail that I desperately want to fix.

Just as I notice her, she whirls around to face me, her blue eyes big and bright and terrified. "Katniss!" She screams, the same way she did the last day she was alive. "Katniss, help! They're coming!"

I don't know who's coming or what's happening or where we even are, but all I feel is relief somehow. Relief that she's here, that I'm in her presence again, that she's almost within my reach. Instinctively I call out, "Prim!" Just so I can finally get a response to the name I've been shouting into oblivion for almost a year now.

"Katniss, help me!" She cries again and then looks over her shoulder. She's not talking about the fire between us, as it doesn't seem too intent on heading towards her.

I don't know what's coming or who she's afraid of, but my instincts now go into overdrive. My body suddenly snaps into alert and I whip my head around, to see if I can find an opening in the fire closing in on me, if I can find a way to get to the sister I lost what feels like only yesterday, if I can find a way to save her this time.

There's no gap in the fire though. It's crowded around me, front, back and side to side. The more seconds that pass by, the closer the fire folds into my proximity, and I have to brace myself before making a split-second decision.

But it's not really a decision at all. Prim needs me and I cannot fail her. I have to save her this time.

I take a bold step directly into the fire, with every intention of running through it somehow. Of running past the wild embers, scorching myself no doubt, but still making it over to my distressed, frightened little sister. But it doesn't work like I expect.

But really, does anything?

These flames are nothing like the fires I've encountered before. And I've been around more fire in my life than anyone ever should.

No, these flames don't burn me. They don't hurt me or put me through agony or singe me to pieces. They don't melt off my makeshift coat of skin and they don't further decimate it either.

Instead the fire feels like almost nothing. Like something almost itchy, something almost irritating, something almost painful. Something that make me want to squirm and scream and escape all at the same time.

Which is real ironic considering what else it seems these flames do.

They seem to hold me into place. The second I'm in their hold, instead of the horrific pain I thought I'd be in, I'm trapped in a series of almost nothing.

I'm not in excruciating pain physically, but seeing my sister standing ten feet from me, and not being able to move any closer, not being able to protect her from whatever she's terrified of, is worse than any amount of injury this fire could have inflicted.

"Katniss!" Prim screams now, her voice only growing in its frantic nature. "Help! Why won't you come help me?"

I try to scream, try to tell her I want to but I can't move. But it turns out that these flames also paralyze vocal muscles.

"Peeta's dying!" Prim yelps out, looking behind her again, her hands beginning to shake in a way she almost never let them in life. She always tried to keep it together, to remain calm and rational in a crisis.

Her words elicit something entirely new inside of me though. "Peeta?" I yell in confusion, my voice suddenly no longer paralyzed.

"They're killing him! Katniss, please, why won't you come here? We need you!" Prim is close to hysterical now and frankly, so am I.

"I'm trying! I just," I move my hands down my body, trying to push the flames away as they rises up to my chest, trying to just break free from these fiery chains once and for all. "The fire, Prim! I can't get out of the fire."

Prim's voice drops then, loses all source of fear, every ounce of panic. Loses any semblance of emotion. "Katniss, there is no fire," she states blankly, her eyes looking directly at the embers covering my stomach and legs. "There's nothing there."

I just look at her for a moment, completely speechless. Her words are inconceivable, her eyes are haunted now, her facial expression is unrecognizable. Even her voice doesn't sound like hers anymore.

Before I can comprehend what's happening, in the distance a gunshot goes off.

Prim delicately glances over her shoulder now, her blue eyes cold as ice. "He's dead," she informs clinically, before sighing deeply, her tone almost disappointed. "And so am I."

I don't know what happens next or how it occurs, but I fly upwards in my bed with such a start, I give myself whiplash.

I hear a loud screeching noise hanging in the air, a hoarse trepidation that almost makes me feel better. I don't know why but someone else screaming in the middle of the night gives me hope, as sick as that may be.

Only it's not someone else, I realize, as my throat burns raw. I realize with startling clarity that I'm the only making all the noise. I'm the one shaking so tremendously. I'm the one who is sobbing.

"Shhh," a voice whispers against the darkness, and I flail involuntarily at the shock. "Sorry, sorry," Peeta instantly apologizes, his hands gripping my arms with a little too much intensity, trying to still my shaking. "It's okay, Katniss, you were just having a nightmare."

His words do precious little to calm me down though. "She was there," I cry, the image, the feeling, of Prim standing only ten feet from me and not being able to reach her too painful for me to unsee.

"Who was there?" He asks tenderly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Katniss, breathe."

I don't even bother listening to his advise. I haven't exhaled since I was eleven. "Prim was there. She was begging me to save her and then I couldn't, I was trapped but-but," I cut myself off, unable to form coherent words and thoughts any longer.

Peeta gets the gist though. "Come here," he whispers and pulls me into his arms, like he used to on the train, when my nightmares woke us both three times a night. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says softly now, and rubs my back in a way that elicits goosebumps. His way of trying to soothe my shaking. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You died too," I blurt out then. I don't even know why I feel inclined to tell him.

"What?"

"I was stuck and I couldn't speak and then Prim said you were going to die and I got scared enough that I could talk again and I thought-I thought," I stumble breathlessly, my tears pouring out against his shoulder now.

I feel his lips touch my cheek and I'm too upset to revel in the feeling of blood rushing there. "It was just a nightmare," he promises.

But my sentiment is unfinished. "I thought I could break free, that I could-"

"Katniss," he halts, still holding me in his embrace, rocking me slightly. "It wasn't real. I promise you, it wasn't real."

Those words, the words so often said to him by me, ring a bell that I didn't want to ring. It snaps me back into reality abruptly and without warning, I feel like my chest is going to collapse.

Because this means Prim wasn't really there, that she still is as dead as she was yesterday, that I still watched her explode into pieces all over the bombsite in the Capitol.

I still failed to protect her.

Peeta pulls back slightly then and rests his forehead against mine. "It's okay, Katniss," he says again, trying to calm my trembles by rubbing my arms up and down.

"How are you in my house?" I realize, with an intense sudden clarity. "How are you here? Are you real or am I still-"

He quickly puts me out of my misery. "You gave me a key, remember? A long time ago? We gave each other keys to our houses."

Oh. Right. I forgot all about that when he had his nightmare, didn't I?

Good thing he's an idiot who keeps his door unlocked at night.

He's explaining further before I can think to ask. "I heard you having a nightmare from my house. That's why I rushed over here."

I'm caught between embarrassment and gratitude. "Sorry, I really don't know what brought it on."

"Hey," he quietly reprimands, lifting my chin now to meet eye contact. "Don't apologize. No one understands nightmares like me."

I nod, accepting his words, though still a little uncomfortable with screaming for all the district to hear at two in the morning.

Then again, our entire neighborhood is Haymitch and the two of us, and our mentor was drinking like a fish last night so really, the only person who could have heard me is already sitting directly in my eye line.

To punctuate his words, when I don't respond verbally, he lifts my hand up and brings it to his lips tenderly.

And I don't know what comes over me or why. I don't know if it's because we've been growing closer again lately or if I just haven't felt his arms around me since days ago in the bakery and I miss the feel of it desperately, but I find myself abruptly throwing my body around his before I can talk myself out of it.

He catches me easily, like he anticipated my reaction and sways me for a long moment, until my breathing begins to even itself out.

"Will you stay?" I ask raspily into his neck, as I feel his hand tangles in my matted locks.

"Always."

Chapter Text

A few weeks later.

We don't slide back this time. Instead we seem to gravitate even closer to one another. Closer than I imagined we could ever be again.

I never acknowledged it consciously, not even to myself, but there was always a part of me that believed we'd never get back the comfortable friendship we had just prior to the Quell. Back before we knew about the active efforts being made for the rebellion. Before we knew I was already a figurehead for the impending war. Before we knew exactly how things would end.

Before we knew exactly what would become of us.

"Lay still," Peeta orders playfully now. His fingers are sifting through my hair, practicing his braiding skills. It's an entirely useless act for him, as he's never going to need to put this skill to use, but it feels so nice, it makes my scalp sing so sweet to feel him comb through my long locks, that I allow him to continue.

Ever since the night I had that awful, confusing dream, Peeta has found a permanent residence beneath my sheets come nightfall. Even on days he works late at the bakery or I miss dinner, too entranced in hunting and trading at the new, rebuilt Hob, I still find him beside me under the blankets when the sky turns black.

Every night—it's almost ritualistic—I awaken with some awful feeling at one point or another. Sometimes the dreams only hold a sinister edge and refuse to actually cross over into harrowing. Other nights my psyche shows no mercy and I fly up in bed, never soon enough, in a cold sweat, screaming on the top of my lungs.

And every night now, Peeta is there, right next to me every time I awaken. Every night he holds me and soothes me until my tears have dried up, until my heart beat slows down, until I can properly breathe again.

He is patient and sweet and doesn't get angry when I disturb him multiple times in one night. Just like on the train. He never minds it when I wake up in a frenzy, no matter how long it takes to get me back to sleep.

Only this morning was different. My nightmares were standard last night. They only caused one minor disturbance and all Peeta had to do was hold me in his arms for me to simmer down.

But, when the sun broke through the clouds and the light outside began to stream through the windows, so did a horrific flashback for Peeta, of memories I won't even dare to ask about. Memories that I know are unthinkable, unspeakable, and completely unbearable. Moments where he was hurt and tortured and wrecked. Moments that can never be taken back, no matter what anyone does now.

Moments that he will always have to live with, because of me.

But instead of focusing on my crippling remorse, I did my best to reciprocate the comfort he so easily doles out to me. I instinctively found myself wrapping his rigid body in mine, squeezing myself to him, breathing in a scent that's entirely just his. Even when he didn't make a move to return my hugs, when he froze in my embrace, I still held on, hoping it'd give some semblance of consolation, even if the effort was fruitless.

Turns out though, playing real or not real is just as effective as the cuddling. Turns out those two in tandem are still the best tools to bring Peeta back to himself, to break the invisible chains Snow still has wrapped around him.

By the time breakfast is over, we've turned real or not real into a full-fledged game. One that's so ridiculous and stupid and juvenile, that it makes me laugh embarrassingly and brings a light back to Peeta's oceanic blue eyes.

And when he asks, his hand grasped in mine the same way it had been for hours, if I could take him to the meadow today, nothing in the world would have been important enough for me to refuse.

"You once dressed as a penguin for Costume Day at school, real or not real," I ask, my brows knitting together as I concentrate on tying dandelion stems together, to make a flower crown. I attempt to use the most microscopic, intricate knot I was shown in training for the Quell to bind the strands but it fails every time as the green ends snap apart.

Peeta chuckles above me, his thumb grazing my forehead in a gesture that's both caring and definitely cannot pass for accidental.

"Real. I'd never seen one before. I was fascinated by the idea of them."

I wrinkle my nose. "Black and white birds that live in cold places and can't fly don't sound like very good game to me."

"Of course you measure every animal by their hunting appeal."

"What do you measure them by? Their artistic appeal?" I shoot back.

Peeta chuckles a little before moving on, his turn now to ask me a question. "You once threw up in Alyssum Willard's backpack but never got caught, real or not real?"

My mouth falls open in shock. That was so long ago I scarcely remember it. And I thought no one ever knew about that besides me. "Real. But how do you know that, Peeta?"

"I watched you do it," he says lightly, feeling proud of himself now.

"How? It was during recess?"

"I came back to get Delly's coat for her. Saw the whole thing. Why didn't you just go home?"

I shrug then, the levity dissipating a bit from my demeanor. "Prim," I try to say as nonchalantly as I can manage. "She would have had to walk home by herself and she didn't know the way alone. My mom was having a bad day and my dad didn't get home from the mines until late so..." I trail off, focusing even more intently on the dandelions sitting across my chest.

Peeta stops braiding my hair and moves to brush it back, away from my face. It's just like in the cave, a moment that feels like a lifetime ago when in fact it wasn't even two years back. A moment that feels a little made up, after all the war and bloodshed that came after, but is probably more real than anything else we did in that arena.

It's a moment that feels so personal to me, but is simultaneously imprinted in the entire country's memory.

"You're such a good sister, Katniss," he whispers, his voice maybe a little hesitant.

"No, I wasn't," I emphasis.

He catches my inflection. "Yes, you are."

I set my bundle of flowers down then, my voice growing stern. "Prim's dead, Peeta." Even now, the words burn in my mouth. "And it's my fault."

"That is the stupidest thing you've ever said." His tone is completely deadpan.

I bypass his comment, probably wisely. "I can't be a good sister without one even alive."

"Yes, you can," he insists. "Prim is still alive as long as you remember her. People don't just live in our lives, Katniss. They live in our hearts. They're a part of us. They're a part of who we are and everything we do. Your sister is still alive as long as someone is there to remember her."

His words hit me in a spot I've spent every day since the war trying to stitch closed. His words cause tears to erupt from my eyes unexpectedly and, after all the nights of terror he's witnessed, Peeta doesn't even flinch now when he sees me wipe my lids roughly with the heel of my hand.

His fingers run through my hair again. "It's okay to still cry about her," he whispers. "I still cry about my family and somedays I can't even remember their faces."

I jolt then, not expecting him to say that. And then his sentiment about people still being alive as long as someone can remember them hits me in an entirely new way. "You don't remember your family?"

He shrugs, both his fingers and eyes focused on twisting my dark locks once again. "Sometimes I do... I'm not so sure other days. My memory isn't exactly top notch, if you know what I mean." His joke isn't funny and I don't even pretend to laugh with him.

I wrack my brain, wishing for anything I could offer him to make this better. But there's little I can conjure up. I barely knew him before the games, how exactly would I know anything about his brothers? His dad was a nice man, from what I could tell, but a man of such few words. And I doubt Peeta wants me to go on about the witch. She may not have been ideal but she was his mother and I doubt he'd wish to hear my memories of her.

But I want to say something, just to try, no matter how bad an effort it may be, so I murmur, "Rye was really good at wrestling."

For some reason this makes Peeta burst out laughing. The sound, the only sound I wanted to hear all morning, brings a smile to my face as well. "Thank you, Katniss, for the most general detail about my brother."

I open my mouth to say something witty but his grin stops that, and in the end, I can't even repress my own soft giggle. "He one time stopped and helped me pick up my books."

That throws Peeta a little. "That doesn't sound like Rye? At least, the Rye I remember? He was usually distracted as easily as a dog. He used to knock me over all the time because he couldn't even see me right in front of his face."

"Well, I can be a little... vocal when someone runs into me. You know, slowing me down and interrupting quality time in the woods."

Once again, I accomplish my only task for the day and Peeta guffaws at that. "Of course, it always comes back to the woods with you."

"Okay, you know what? I'm moving on." I move to sit up, to think better, even if that makes little to no sense. But Peeta has other plans and tugs on my hair to stay put.

"I almost have this braid down as well as you. Don't ruin my work now."

I roll my eyes but keep still after that, staring upwards into the sky. It's blue today, as blue as Peeta's irises, and there's white clouds floating microscopically slow. Tiny butterflies flit around us and the smell of grass is so strong it fills my nostrils in a way that makes me so nostalgic for days here with my dad when I was a kid. When it was just me and him for a few hours, and there were no games and no mines and no death or pain or violence.

Sometimes I wonder what he'd think of all his daughter became. Sometimes I wonder if he'd be saddened by what his family turned into.

And sometimes, though I refuse to even allow myself to consciously think of it, I wonder if my dad would like Peeta.

Thinking of dads though inspires my next words. "Your dad once gave me a leftover cookie when I came to the back door of the bakery to trade alone."

Peeta hums at that. "Yeah, I knew that one. My mom practically had his head."

"Why?"

"Said he was taking food from his kids' mouths. I was there frosting a cake when they got into it. Wheaton and me both said we didn't care if he gave away a stupid cookie but my mom said it was the principal behind it all."

"Least she put you first that time," I note after a moment, when his mouth scrunches up weird and he doesn't continue to speak.

"She wasn't all bad," he finally mumbles and I'm a little taken aback by his words. Maybe it's just my interpretation but I always thought he agreed his mom was a witch.

"What do you mean?"

"She had a bad temper... a really bad temper," he says with a surprising chuckle. "But she would sometimes be the exact opposite. I fell and burned my arm on the open oven door one time and she rushed me to your mom. You weren't there. She never liked anyone in the Seam, your mom least of all, but she didn't even care that day. Her focus was me. And on my fifteenth birthday, she baked me a cake herself. Told me she loved me... She wasn't all bad." His voice almost enters a trance like state, to the point I don't want to say anything and destroy his nostalgia. "At least, if those memories are real," he tacts on the end, his tone becoming a little unsure.

"I'm sure they're real, Peeta. If you remember all those moments clearly, I'm sure they're real memories. And I'm sure your mother loved you." I don't know why I feel inclined to say that but I do. Not for the witch's sake, but for the sweet boy practicing braids in my hair's.

"How could you know that?" He laughs at me, his voice quiet but lighter again.

"Who wouldn't love you?" I say before I can think of a million reasons I shouldn't.

His hands go still in my hair, as now I've clearly surprised him. But instead of all the things I know he could say—and there's a lot of possibilities—he chooses to just taunt me. "I'm very lovable, real or not real?"

I roll my eyes and snort. "Not real."

"I'm emotionally wounded, real or not real?"

"Not real."

"Your hair is full of tangles."

"Real. Because of you."

"You won an award in fourth grade for giving the best speech in school."

My thick brows knit together. "Not real. For sure, not real."

"Definitely not real," he agrees a little too fast.

"Then why'd you even ask me that?"

"Because I won it."

"Of course you did."

"Okay," he murmurs, his fingers leaving my scalp, petting my hair he'd been twisting down now. "Your turn to ask. But make it good," he adds.

"Because your questions were good."

"Best I had."

"Which can't be saying much."

"You know-"

"Real or not," I cut off, making sure to keep my head in his lap so he can't stand to leave. "I used to wear my hair in two braids instead of one."

"Real," he answers automatically. "I remember the day in fourth grade you started doing a single braid."

"I bet you missed the other braid."

"No, actually, I was ready for a change."

I pinch his arm lightly, before sticking my tongue out at him. "Real or not real, you used to leave pieces of your lunch on the table after you left the cafeteria."

"Real. I knew a lot of kids were hungry at home."

His words only confirm the obvious notion that I already figured. Back then, when we had to be no older than thirteen, I wondered why he would do that? Why would he freely leave food for anyone to come and grab? I knew by then that nothing was ever free. I knew that no one did anything from the kindness of their hearts. I had learned that the hard way.

But I didn't know him. I didn't know the kind of person Peeta Mellark was and for some reason, learning that made all the difference. It shone the memories in a new light, and suddenly in this moment, I have to fight the insane urge to kiss his unsuspecting lips that are hovering above me. Because so many times it was me who took a little bit of what he left behind, when all his town friends had cleared out and no one was looking, and shared it with Prim on the walk home. So many times I saw other starving children, who's parents couldn't afford to feed them, take a morsel of what he left.

And so many times, I never stopped to consider the kind of boy who'd give away what no grown adult in the district was willing to.

He was so kind, at the very core of his being, and kind people got to me. Kind people buried themselves somewhere deep inside of me, planted themselves in my bones, bled themselves into the stream of my veins. And it was all I could do not to pull his mouth to mine or mine to his. No longer for show or for survival, but because I suddenly want to. I suddenly want to remember what it felt like to kiss him inside the arena, in the cave before my head wound bled.

But I can't and don't, because for some reason I know we're not there, and we probably won't ever be there and it would ruin everything if I were to make a hasty decision like that.

But he's staring at me now, wondering why I'm looking at him so deeply, and I choose wisely not to tell him what I'm thinking, and instead to open my mouth and say something else. Something equally true, but won't rock the boat of the somewhat stable relationship we've managed to maintain these last few weeks.

"You're my best friend, real or not real?"

///

A few days later.

I'm sitting on the counter, humming to myself as I read the old, brown pages of the all but spineless book when Peeta enters.

"What's that?"

I raise an eyebrow without even glancing up at him. "The cook book you brought over?"

I don't even have to look at him to know he's rolling his eyes. "I meant the song, Katniss."

"Oh." For some reason that stops me dead in my tracks. Probably because I didn't even realize which song I'd been humming. "Clementine."

That doesn't help his confusion in the least. "Clementine?"

"You don't know that song?"

"Sorry," he says in a tone that implies he isn't at all, and then he chuckles at his own joke before he says it. "My parents rarely had time to teach us music in between baking, frosting and selling."

I shoot him a dirty look before singing aloud. I keep my nose in the book and my eyes on the page, but can't help noticing still the way his face brightens a little with my voice. "Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Clementine. You were lost and gone forever, dreadful sorrow, Clementine. In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine. Dwelt a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine."

"Yes, I love her, how I loved her, though her shoes were number nine," Peeta suddenly finishes, smirking to himself as he sang.

And for some reason, my first thought is the sudden realization that I've never heard him sing before. The novelty makes something in my core tingle and I can't hold back my shy smile as I look up from the cookbook. I quickly decide though it's better not to mention it to him, running the risk of making him self-conscious. Instead I murmur, "I thought you didn't know the song?"

His eyes glaze over for a second. "You used to sing that song during recess in second grade, real or not real?"

This is the point where things get a little muddy, because I can't actually remember either. His shiny, distorted memories are probably clearer than mine of our childhoods. "I don't know? I know about that age my mom got so sick of me and my dad singing that song that she used to shut her and Prim in her room until we stopped."

He laughs then, his eyes shifting from confused to joyous. "Really? She didn't like hearing you sing?"

"No, she did. It's just a really old song and I think she heard it too many times. Actually," I add with a chuckle. "I think my dad used to sing it to annoy her."

"Who'd do something to purposely annoy their wife?" He asks with a glint in his eyes. A glint I barely understand but makes me smile all the same.

"My dad," I say, smiling wistfully. "So who's cookbook is this?"

"My grandmother's. I never actually met her. She died when Wheaton was a baby."

I read the name on the corner of the first page. "Canola Mellark?" He nods in affirmation as he gathers together the ingredients and utensils. "You know, I don't have to help. I really am better at baking from an observational standpoint-"

"Katniss, it's cookies," he deadpans and I abruptly shut up. "You can't screw up cookies."

"Watch me," I murmur under my breath.

I can cook decently enough. I've been cooking since I was eleven and started bringing home game and plants to eat. Younger, in fact, as my dad taught me while my mom used to feed Prim. But baking was not a pastime I ever engaged in.

Peeta claims baking is easier than cooking but to me, it's still foreign and intimidating. Which is odd, since I've spent so much time since the war watching Peeta bake. I've sat on multiple countertops—his, mine, Haymitch's and the bakery's—and watched him work, all while not lifting a finger. But now that he wishes to teach me, I feel an internal panic that he'd say was ridiculous if I spoke it aloud.

Still, he sees my expression and shoots me a wry look. "Come here," he says and pulls the ancient cookbook from my hands.

I still resist, staying up on the counter and ignoring his request. "Do we even have all the ingredients? Because it asks for vanilla extract and you were running low on that last week-"

"I had some sent on the last train delivery," he assures and then catches me off-guard, unexpectedly lifting me off the counter. "You'll do fine," he promises and then moves behind me, pulling my hair back behind my shoulders and stroking it. "And if you don't, it's just cookies. We can toss them or give them away for free. It doesn't matter."

"I don't like being wasteful," I say, a little begrudged. "This feels wasteful for me to possibly ruin an entire batch of ingredients."

He chuckles a little under his breath. If he wasn't standing so close to me, so close I can hear his breathing, so close his breath is tickling my ear and sending a pleasant feeling up and down my spine, I probably wouldn't hear his quiet laugh.

"You're not doing this alone," he promises and reaches both his arms from either side of me to position the bowl directly in front of us. "I'll help you."

I still pout slightly, but finally take a breath and hope this attempt turns out well enough that I at least can stomach eating the sweets. It's not wasted if it fills a stomach. And if I can manage to swallow them, then so can Haymitch, when he decides to get drunk.

The thought makes me feel better and I let my shoulders relax a bit. However, my body tenses for a whole new reason when Peeta takes a small step closer, his chest completely pressed up against my back now. "Okay, let's get started," he says, almost nonchalantly, and I wonder how this position isn't at all having an effect on him.

For all his claims about having a lifelong crush on me and never, ever having been indifferent to me, he's sure doing a spectacular job right about now of acting like this is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I berate myself mentally for the thought. I'm holding him to the standard of the Peeta that existed before the war. The one who loved me more than life itself, no matter what I did or how little I deserved his affinity.

This Peeta now, for all his similarities to his old self, for all the ways in which he's still the sweet, kindhearted, funny, charismatic person he used to be, has a wall up to me that was never there before, and I have to remind myself that his feelings may never be for me what they once were.

I don't know why but that thought abruptly brings a lump to my throat.

Peeta tosses a few things into the mixing bowl, his arms on either side of me, surrounding my body with his still. He doesn't even have to glance at the book, already knowing what to add and when to mix the contents together before putting more in. I notice, not for the first time, the way he measures the consistency of the batter, the way he eyes the bowl and just knows if it looks right or wrong. I notice, not for the first time, that he has such a natural talent, that could never be taught, for what he does and I begin to wonder if baking is his hunting. If it isn't just a skill for survival or because his parents made him do it to help their family out, but if his heart races when he creates desserts from scratch the same way mine does when I load my bow before sending it into my prey's heart.

These thoughts are interrupted by his hand picking up mine, encompassing it in his hold. And he's held my hand countless times, especially as of late. As of late, he's held me countless times. Usually in bed at night, when trying to protect me from the nightmares that haunt me from the inside of my own head. But this is different somehow. His body curled around mine, doing something where for once he's in charge, he's in his element and I'm so far out of mine.

But the sensation isn't bad. Not in the least. I may have tried to get out of doing this, but right now, standing in his embrace, his chin resting on my shoulder for convenience, I feel incredibly grateful I agreed to this idea of his.

He guides my hand to the mixing spoon and is murmuring directions to me that I cannot retain for anything in this world, and his breath is tickling my neck as his mouth is so close to my ear. My head spins around me and his arm grazes my left side a little too close and I squirm noticeably.

And he lets out a chuckle by mistake before pressing his mouth closed, and I realize he's known exactly what he was doing this whole time.

///

Two weeks later.

The inside of Annie's beach house is bright blue, the color of the ocean water. That is my initial thought. The walls are the color of the water she and Finnick so dearly loved.

The house is small but not as claustrophobic as I imagined, when we agreed to come by for a visit.

The time has come for us to all gather again, to witness the destruction of another arena. This time the one built for Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.

Mine and Peeta's.

Annie was going to the ceremony too, even though we'd skipped her's. We'd skipped everyone's since Haymitch's. As much as destroying the arenas sounds like a gift on paper, stepping foot inside one unnecessarily seems about as fun as spraining my ankle in the woods or falling out of a tree.

My guilt for not going to Annie's ceremony was relieved a little by Johanna, who claimed Annie didn't even go. I suppose no one pressures an unstable girl who's still full of her new mother hormones.

And then Jo didn't want anyone to go to her's, which was a major relief to me. Witnessing the girl who calls me brainless as a term of endearment and uses insults as a greeting in a place she's most vulnerable isn't exactly comfortable territory.

But getting out of my own ceremony evidently isn't an option. Apparently, in spite of killing Coin, I'm considered--by Dr. Aurelius himself--rehabilitated enough to withstand the event.

I'm still fighting the urge to contrive a public mental breakdown so I can go home to Twelve and take a nap in the woods.

But, though I was given permission to ride the train from Twelve across the country to the Capitol, technically it's prohibited for me to be here in Four right now. Technically I'm still exiled or banished or imprisoned or whatever you want to call it, to only District Twelve. Technically I'm breaking the law by taking a day trip right now, and could be sent to prison if caught by the wrong person.

As if reading my mind, Peeta's hand run up and down my back, his nails scratching soothingly through my shirt. "You're okay," he whispers, quiet enough that no one but me can hear.

I try to force an agreeable nod but it comes out like a grimace and Peeta's hand moves to massage the back of my neck, working out the tension there. "Paylor personally cleared your trip," he reminds.

"To the Capitol, Peeta," I correct, my voice uneven. "Not to take a day trip to Four."

"It's going to be fine. We're not going out in public where anyone can see us, we're just with Annie and your mom and Jo."

"You can go out anywhere you wish," I point out. "There's no we about this."

I don't even know why I snap at him. Maybe because I'm on edge and I take things out on people when I'm uptight. Maybe because I'm acutely aware that if I get caught breaking the rules set forth by Paylor and Plutarch, and all the people in the Capitol who determined me insane enough that I couldn't be responsible for murdering the wrong president, I'll be done for. This time for good.

Just when I start feeling better about things, when I begin to have more good days than bad, something always has to come and rip away any semblance of happiness from my life. It's the law of the universe.

I snapped at Peeta because I know getting caught loitering in Four and subsequently going to prison would not only mean containment inside a cell, would not only mean being controlled and monitored and isolated and essentially treated like a tribute all over again, but going to prison would also take me away from Peeta entirely. It would mean an end to Peeta and my days together, our nights wrapped in each other's arms, the broken down version of a functional life that we've somehow managed to find. A broken down version of a functional life that makes me happier than I ever imagined was even a faint possibility again.

And I can't help but take his lack of concern, his cavalier attitude, as a lack of care if our times spent together come to an abrupt end. I can't help but feel like maybe he doesn't cherish it as much as I do, even if I'd never admit it out loud.

His eyes flicker with hurt now. "Of course there's a we, Katniss. I don't want to go anywhere without you."

His sincere words fill me with remorse for my harshness, but before I can rectify it, Annie comes rounding the corner with a bright smile on her face. "Guys, Finn is up and awake. Are you ready to meet him?"

I nod, trying to appear enthusiastic. I haven't seen Annie or my mother or Jo in so long. If I wasn't so anxious about being here, I'd probably be over the moon. To even my own surprise, I missed each of them dearly, even Annie, who I barely so much as met during the rebellion.

Part of that can be attributed to Peeta. They were tortured together, along with Jo. The three of them know each other on a deep level, as there's nothing like a life or death situation to form a permanent bond between people.

Maybe that's all my relationship with Peeta is to him now. Another bond he formed over the course of the war. Another person he went through something traumatic with. Someone he can count on, that he can trust, that can truly understand what he'd been through.

Maybe I don't matter to him as much as I like to believe.

I have to force myself to stop thinking these kind of thoughts, at least for the time being. Annie is showing us her and Finnick's baby. We're meeting the son Finnick never can. That should trump over any insecurity I may be feeling.

If I'm being completely honest with myself, I know that my issue right now is at least partly accredited to the fact that it absolutely terrifies me how attached I've become to Peeta. How much I've come to rely on our daily life together. By how much I've come to enjoy his presence. To the point that it could practically destroy the last shred of me that's still alive if it were taken away.

Like when I first came home and realized that no one was there to stop me if I ended it all. There was a minuscule part of me that hung on, that instinctively felt like there was something I was still waiting for.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't realize at some point that feeling of longing I had then, that one last molecule of hope I still had buried deep inside, that couldn't be taken away no matter what else was stolen, was very obviously Peeta Mellark.

And I think it's that idea, that even when there was nothing left inside of me to hold onto, even when I was a decimated version of myself, burned alive by the fire I myself created, there was still an invisible string tying me to Peeta that could never be severed, that scares me most of all.

I'm brought back to the present suddenly by the image of my mother coming down the stairs to join us, holding a very small creature in her arms.

"Hey," she greets softly, as though she didn't see us this morning at the train station. Then again, I was only half-awake when she picked us up so perhaps she's just covering her bases. "This is Finn Odair."

In her arms lays a large baby, with bronze waves and newborn blue eyes that are already beginning a transition to something closer to the color of the sea.

I stare him for a moment in awe, not expecting the way his face—which is mainly reminiscent of his deceased father, with touches of his mother here and there, from what I can see at first glance—makes my stomach flip.

It's like seeing a dead man alive again. Like someone stuck the sensational, attractive, loyal victor in a time machine and restarted his life over.

It's uncanny, the resemblance. Even the look in the baby's eyes resembles his father. In ways the child will perhaps never even know.

That thought alone makes me bitter. Because how it is fair that I'm still alive, that I'm able to meet his son, if Finnick himself can't?

"Can you smile at Katniss and Peeta?" Annie coos to the baby, pulling him out of my mother's arms. Johanna descends the stairs behind us at a glacial pace, evidently in no hurry to join our company, despite the fact that she chose to be here. No one formally invited her to stop by for a visit on the way to the Capitol. Haymitch opted out when asked.

"Annie, he doesn't smile at anyone," Jo states knowingly, sounding annoyed as per usual.

Of course, no one but me is banished to a single district. Johanna has met Finn many times already in his few months of life.

"He smiles when he sees you," Annie contradicts, her tone still cheerful.

"Well everyone does that," Johanna agrees without missing a beat.

I feel my mom's hand touch my shoulder, feeling my tension without me even having to say so. "Do you want to hold the baby, honey?" She asks, despite the fact it's not her baby.

But my mother lives in District Four full time, working tirelessly at the hospital, living in a house not far from Annie. Helping out with the baby whenever she can.

She feels ownership over the little boy, in a way that makes me a little uncomfortable, though I can't name the reason why.

Still, when I don't answer her question she rubs my arm maternally. The way I used to shy away from after my dad died and I resented her for letting us nearly starve.

But now I almost lean into it. Almost but not quite. Like much of our relationship. Almost but not quite.

"You don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, of course not!" Annie agrees instantly, her words never anything but kind. I feel a pang of sympathy for her. I can't imagine going through everything that's happened to her and still having such a soft shell. I can't even imagine the bravery that takes.

Annie in a lot of ways is braver than I am. She just doesn't realize it because she's too naïve, too scarred, too anxious and damaged.

Just like us all. All of us—Peeta, Haymitch, Johanna, me—we all exhibit those characteristics as well. But it's different with Annie. She doesn't seem to realize sometimes the traumas she's suffered. She doesn't seem to realize sometimes how dark the world is. Other times, the smallest things trigger her into seclusion, trigger her to hide inside her own head.

I can't fault her for that. I did that as well, after losing Prim. But Annie, it seems, lives inside her own head more often than she lives in reality. And for that, I'm jealous of her.

She's so far buried in her own little world that she's practically fearless in mine.

I can't imagine raising a baby alone, after going through the games, being tortured as a prisoner of war, losing my husband at the last moment. I can barely take care of myself most days. And sometimes I can't even manage that.

My mom squeezes my arm again and that's when Peeta, who I still haven't apologized to for biting his head off, takes the focus off me. "Can I hold him?" He asks gently, his voice always very kind and sweet to Annie. Knowing how little tolerance she must have to added stress. Probably also knowing the deeper reasons why.

"Of course, Peeta!" She exclaims and then giggles to herself as she flings the baby into Peeta's grasp trustingly. Much to my utter surprise.

I guess my expression gives me away because Jo guffaws behind me and my mom chuckles under her breath, but Peeta looks as taken aback as I am by the abrupt gesture.

Annie clocks us a moment later. "Oh, don't worry about being gentle. He's his father's son. Sturdy as could be, since the day he was born."

Because I suddenly feel remorse for not holding the young Odair, I offer Annie a simple compliment with all the sincerity I can. "He's pretty."

She snorts and a new facet of her personality comes clear to me. "He better be. Considering how much trouble he gave me during labor."

And I laugh then too, feeling slightly more at ease, and turn again to look at the baby, to look at his sky blue irises that are slowly fading into a unique turquoise I've only ever seen once before, flicks of green swimming inside the cerulean. Finn additionally has long, black lashes and already tanned baby-soft skin. His hair is shiny and curly and frames his face complimentary.

He is one of the most beautiful babies I'm sure this country has ever had. And yet, he isn't the one I'm staring at.

No, my attention is involuntarily shifted towards the man holding the baby in his arms, his own bright blue eyes—that couldn't have changed since his own infancy, as the color is just too untainted and pure—wild and awed. His mouth is turning up at the corners and his chest and shoulders are doing that thing where they rise up higher when he's happy. And he's cradling the baby in his arms that suddenly seem so large—has he grown bigger recently? I can't seem to remember now—and he's being so gentle, with a creature so helpless, so small and perfect and innocent, and I can't explain why I rapidly feel an unexpected warm sensation spread across my chest as my heart hammers.

I feel for a moment like I'm going nuts, like there's something seriously wrong with me, but I can't look away, my eyes glued on Peeta and Finn, the image captivating me so deeply for reasons I can't even articulate. Not even to myself.

But I forget for a moment that my mom's arm is still around me, and she feels my body language change. I don't realize she's even still in the room until she noticeably suppresses a laugh.

"What?" I murmur, forcing my eyes away from Peeta. It almost hurts, but I can't place why so I just bury it. I bury everything when it doesn't make sense. I look at my mom curiously, not comprehending her expression.

"Nothing," she replies, but her eyes are lighter than I've seen them in so long. When she squeezes my arm, her smile still holding its place on her lips, almost like she knows something I don't, I open my mouth to press her further, but then the baby coos loudly and Peeta makes a sound to comfort it, rocking it a little, and my attention is torn again, forgetting whatever I wanted to say.

I don't remember to question her further for the rest of the day, but when we say our goodbyes before heading back to the train station, her gaze flits to my hand as Peeta interlocks it inside his own.

She's openly smirking as Peeta and I walk out the door.

///

One day later.

The train ride to the Capitol from Four is shorter than I remember. I sleep most of it, buried deep in Peeta's arms. Just like the nights of the Victory Tour and the nights leading up to the Quell, we find ourselves coiled tightly beneath the satin sheets provided on the luxury train. And I find myself safe-guarded against the monsters inside my head by burrowing further and further into the boy haunted by the same demons.

Effie called us only a week ago—not offering us anywhere near the same preparation time as she did with Haymitch's arena, probably on purpose, expecting a repeat of my same complaints—to let us know that we were expected in the Capitol, that it was time to tear down the last arena.

The arena of the last real games.

Ours.

I suppose I should be relieved we only have to witness the commemoration of one death pit. I feel vindicated, maybe for the first time ever, that I destroyed the third Quarter Quell with my arrow into the sky.

But any sort of contentment I have ends there, as when I set foot in the arena of the Seventy-Fourth games, I'm surprised to find it feels absolutely no different than when I was a tribute trapped inside.

I don't expect it, though I suppose I should have, but it looks absolutely identical to me as it did the last day of the games. When the mutts chased us and I shot Cato, and Peeta and I spent hours waiting for the manufactured creatures to finish him off. When we ran to the lake, not understanding why the Gamemakers refused to announce us as the two winners. When Peeta almost bled out from his stabbed leg and the boy with the bread nearly died before I even got to really know him.

As we all—Haymitch, Annie, Enobaria, Beetee, Johanna, Peeta and I—pass by the lake, a sense memory comes abruptly flooding back to me.

Holding out the berries, testing the Gamemakers, resigning by myself to realizing they didn't take the bait and it was the end for both of us. Spitting out the berries, jumping in the lake, thinking it was all over when, in truth, it hadn't even begun.

I reach out unconsciously and grip Peeta's hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. I needed to feel him beside me. I needed him to ground me. To for once remind me what was real or not real.

I remember distinctly thinking to myself that day that I couldn't let Peeta die, because then I'd spend the rest of my life trying to think my way out of this place.

Now I can't even let him go from my grasp, for nearly identical reasoning.

We all walk to the Cornucopia, with just Cressida and Pollux this time following us, filming me and Peeta and our joined hands, no doubt. I don't even care anymore what the camera captures.

President Paylor is already waiting for us. My eyes make contact with hers for a split second, despite my every attempt to refuse to look at anyone closely, afraid by what they may see inside my gaze as I stand in the field of my nightmares. But when Paylor looks at me, I can't stop myself from glancing back and I see the sympathy that lies within her brown irises. I shut my eyes quickly, in order to stop it from getting too far under my skin.

I know why Haymitch drank himself into a stupor the whole entire way back to Twelve after his arena was destroyed. I know why he refuses to even look at the sketches and outlines for the memorial.

I know it all too well.

Because being inside this place again is like sitting inside the revolver of a gun, ready to be shot off midair a million miles a second. I don't know what could trigger me and what could calm me, I don't even know why I'm here other than no one would let me out of it. I can't even feel my feet beneath me.

The worst part of this entire event though may be the pity you receive from people who will never understand what it was like inside an arena. Even someone as kind as Paylor can never empathize, and it's almost worse than the people in the Capitol and career districts, who glorified the sick games. Because at least then I didn't feel scrutinized or prodded, even with just a single look.

Of course, it's not just my arena though. It's Peeta's too.

And for once, he doesn't seem to be doing any better than me.

Peeta stands beside me now in the center of the field, his face unreadable but I know—somehow, I don't know if it's through our share trauma or if it's because we spend every single day and night together now—just by his body language that he too, is in a bad place mentally.

He didn't sleep last night. That much I know. I woke up seven—yes, seven—different times with vivid nightmares, screaming and crying and shaking. And every time he was still there beside me, alert and awake, unable to even fall into slumber himself.

His limbs are shaking now, especially his hand that's intertwined with mine, and I subtly lean my head against his arm and give his palm a squeeze.

In a distinctly peculiar way, we're the luckiest victors. Because no matter what happens, no matter how we were used in opposition during the war, no matter how Peeta's feelings for me may have changed or not, we have each other in a way no other victor can relate.

We have a level of understanding of each other's trauma that the others can never even comprehend.

Paylor speaks then and her speech is short and simple, but it's unique to the others she's given during these arena destructions. She makes a point in saying this arena is the where our free world came from. This arena is the one that light on fire what thousands of people had been trying to spark for almost a century.

And she makes a point in saying this arena is the only one who belongs to two victors and the camera—unsurprisingly—is turned right onto me and Peeta.

Neither of us breaks our embrace though. I don't even feel bashful or embarrassment like I typically would, at my head still resting against Peeta's upper arm.

Paylor asks if either of us wish to say anything then. Before we're all dismissed and Cressida and Pollux start getting external shots of the arena for television. Before this place of nightmares and horrors is decimated forever.

For maybe the first time, Peeta definitively says no. He leaves no room for question in his tone. He may have a talent for words, but this is one situation he refuses to verbalize his feelings.

It's no shock to anyone that I also choose to refuse. Johanna even smirks a little and Haymitch nods in approval, knowing how terrible I am with speeches.

Paylor takes me by surprise then though. Instead of wrapping up her speech immediately, she adds something more, staring directly into the camera, as if she's talking to thousands instead of less than a dozen. "I'd like to extend one more measure of gratitude to the two victors from this year. For all the sacrifices they made and for all the losses they personally suffered. They both lost portions of their families, friends and lives, like so many other victors and so many of us, so we could all live in a free world. We can never repay them or each other for what was taken away."

I don't know why, but it's these words that cause my eyes to suddenly well up. These words and the rigidity seeping from Peeta's body language, his chest almost lagging like he just let out a deep breath. I feel, to my surprise, his lips press against the crown of my head and my hand only gets tighter around his.

The cameras focus on us for a moment longer before all is done, and we're told we can clear out.

"Can me and Katniss have a moment?" Peeta requests, his eyes only on Paylor.

"Of course," she agrees kindly, and then directs everyone else to evacuate, Cressida and Pollux first of all.

As soon as we're alone, I step away from him, though our hands stay linked. I don't know what to say, even to Peeta. I've never been fantastic with words by any stretch of the imagination. I've never known what was the right thing to say in my life.

We both look around the arena, the place that once was our personal prison, filled with death and fear and everything horrific in this world, before Peeta abruptly decides to break the silence.

"Katniss," he starts, his voice slow and quiet. And I've spent enough time with him now to recognize his tone. It's the way he speaks on his dark days. It's the way his eyes look when he's in pain. When he's missing his family or remembering his captivity or our games. When he can't get out of bed in the morning, too destroyed by things long past.

"Yes?" I murmur, my voice raspy from lack of use. And from the lump digging itself a permanent residence inside the back of my throat.

"I just want... I just want to thank you," he murmurs now, his words fractured and unsure.

I stare at him, stunned into place. "What? You want to thank me?"

But he seems to be expecting my confusion. "I want to thank you for saving me. During these games. I know what it... I know what it cost you. I know that everything else that came after can be easily tied back to your choice to keep me alive. If you'd killed me here... well, there would have been no berries. No rebellion. No war."

"And no new world," I add, my brows furrowing. "President Snow would still be in power. There would be games still. I'd probably be a prostitute like Finnick."

"Prim would still be alive," he whispers and my heart sinks to my stomach. "If you hadn't saved me, it probably would have saved her."

"No," I disagree with automatically. I keep my voice gentle though, and I refuse to let go of his hand. Because I know that this is guilt speaking and not rationale. I know my choice to save Peeta isn't what cost me Prim. "Coin killed my sister. The war killed her. Not you. I've never..." I have to stop to take a breath or else I'll lose it and burst into tears. "I've never blamed you for that. Ever."

"I blamed me for that. And just about a million other things." He laughs darkly to himself and looks away, his gaze falling on the Cornucopia again. I wonder if he, like me, is waiting for the mutts to appear, to finish us off now like they failed to do nearly two years ago.

I catch him off-guard, standing on my tip toes and placing my hand over his cheek. "Peeta, you're the only reason I was even still alive to save you. If you hadn't tossed me that bread, I don't know..."

His eyes turn back to mine and I'm surprised to find tears welling up there. But he's smiling now, the corners of his mouth turning up in what looks like an appreciative grin. "What?" I ask softly, not understanding his sudden change in expression.

But he just stares at me for a long moment, his smile never wavering, then admits simply, "I'm just so happy that I threw you that bread."

I feel my chest constrict, both moved by his words and exhausted from even standing inside this place again. And my eyes overflow then and all I can manage to say is, "so am I."

And for all the times we've both blamed ourselves for the other's problems, for all the times we wished we could take things we said or did back, for all the times we both wish we'd made different choices, neither of us can deny that we've saved each other. Over and over again.

In every way a person can save another.

"Don't cry," he pleads gently and tenderly cups my face now as well. His thumb wipes the liquid off my cheek as more comes down and it's a lost cause trying to make it stop. Too much has happened to both of us, too much of it occurred inside this very place, to fight back the emotion any longer.

Peeta's own eyes swim and then splash with tears, hitting my hand still resting against his face.

We stare into the other's eyes for a moment too long, our silent communication conveying things we could never verbalize.

And at the same moment I go to wrap my arms around his neck, his pulls me in and encompasses me in a tight hug, swaying us back and forth as both of our tears continue to fall rapidly.

As I bury my face in his chest, moving my hand up to stroke his hair gently, feeling him softly rub my back, only one clear thought runs through my mind.

I never once thought in a place so dangerous, I could ever feel this safe.

Chapter Text

A month later.

"Two of you are a couple of psychos," Haymitch mutters as he exits my backyard, eliciting a grin from both me and Peeta.

"Hey, don't say we never invite you to spend time with us," I call out, not caring if he even hears me or not.

To my surprise, he hears me and goes as far as to reply. "Sweetheart, it's close to a hundred degrees outside," he states exasperated and already slightly tipsy, though it's only noon. "You're just cooking yourselves by staying out here."

"And you think you're going to be happier hiding from the heat inside a house without air conditioning?" Peeta remarks from his place in the grass next to me, a lazy smile still on his mouth.

"Boy, I'd be worried if I were you. Me and the girl don't burn. Your pasty complexion isn't gonna fare well under that sun."

I chuckle, looking at Peeta now. But he rolls his eyes and turns his head away from our old mentor. "I've burned before. I'd rather at least feel the wind than have to sit in a literal inferno."

I nod in agreement, only letting out a small laugh when Haymitch mumbles about us having exactly one brain cell that we take turns sharing. He leaves without prompting after that. Somehow though, I imagine he'll be back soon.

When we woke up today, the sun was blazing through the curtains, heating up everything inside the house. Every room felt like a boiler, the bakery suddenly seemed like a torture chamber when we took the hot ovens into account and sweat quickly began to drip off both mine and Peeta's bodies.

We took turns showering in cold water, him using my bathroom because the idea of bearing a walk to his home three lots down just seemed inhumane. We both drank our weight in ice water. And we both tried to lay on the floor in my living room, hoping it'd be cool enough to provide relief.

It wasn't however. Even the ground of my home was too hot for us.

No one in Panem ever really paid District Twelve much mind. And since the bombing during the war, even fewer people wish to come here and help us with new accommodations.

The air conditioning has been broken in just about every Victor's Village house since I returned here. Air conditioning was never even a luxury majority of the homes in Twelve were offered.

Slowly but surely, in the last year, many citizens of the community have reached out and volunteered to help aid different homes, providing people with things they needed that they couldn't get in the old world.

Running water, working refrigerators, new toilets and bathtubs, repaired roofs. All of these things ranked much higher than the three victors needing their air conditioning fixed.

However, today I wished we hadn't been selfless and at least one of us had a working air system, because as of right now, I'm feeling pretty delirious from the heat.

Lying outside in the grass was just about the only thing that provided even the slightest relief, me and Peeta found out about ten this morning. The wind is blowing slightly and if we bring our water jugs with us, the feeling is just almost bearable.

If it weren't such an insufferable walk, I'd suggest going to the lake today. But the idea of tramping through the woods, along the path it takes to get there, sounds about as nice as turning on the fireplace right now.

Haymitch came over to try and use me for my cold air, only to find both me and Peeta lying in the grass, drinking water and pressing our flushed cheeks to the ground because it was the coldest thing available.

Peeta startles me now, running his hand lazily through my hair. "Mmm," I moan, too exhausted and hot to care about dignity. "Keep doing that."

He laughs at me weakly. "No, your hair is sweaty."

I slap his arm playfully. "So is yours."

"I know." Unexpectedly, he leans upwards lethargically and I find myself blindly grappling for him with my eyes half-closed.

"Where you going?"

"Nowhere," he says and I peak one lid open to see what he's up to then.

I watch, almost in slow motion it seems, as he peels his shirt off, revealing his glistening skin beneath.

His skin was burned, just like mine, in the same explosion. The same explosion that ended the war and killed my sister.

But his skin was an attractive display of pink and cream, looking almost like a watercolor painting, whereas certain patches of my flesh resemble dried, crumbling clay.

I struggle to train my eyes away from the sight of him, his chest a little tanner than I remember—then again, when was the last time I remember seeing his chest except for our first games, when he almost died?

Trying to pretend I'm unaffected by the sight, I quip as evenly as I can, "why are you wearing pants?"

What I meant was why didn't he wear shorts or a swimsuit. What came out was, I suppose unsurprisingly, a lot more perverted than I intended.

He doesn't miss it either, as he lays back against the grass again. And he doesn't miss the opportunity to tease me. "Stop trying to get me out of my clothes, Katniss."

Even through the fiery day, I can't disguise my blush as just a reaction to the temperature outside.

He chuckles, looking coyly at me, while I advert my eyes and try to fight an embarrassed laugh. "And you're one to talk," he says after a moment, his fingers plucking at my shirt sleeve.

I hadn't had the energy to go sift through my dresser that Greasy Sae had generously organized for me last week. Instead, I just pulled my pajamas back on after my icy shower and went about my day.

My pajamas are a long sleeve shirt and cotton pants, made curtesy of Cinna. For nights on the train during Victory Tour. Which took place during the autumn season.

My mind was so distracted by the heat, so depleted from it, that it completely glazed over the fact that my attire was probably not helping my situation in the least.

"Ugh," I grumble, throwing one arm across my eyes exhaustively. "I don't want to walk back inside and change."

Peeta shoots me a funny look, but shuts his eyes after a beat and turns his face up to the sun.

"What?" I ask, reaching for my water and gulping some down, letting it spill over my chin and down my neck, enjoying the cool relief it brought.

"Nothing," he replies, too quickly to be believable.

"No, Peeta, what is it?" I snap, the humidity making me cranky.

He evidently isn't scared of my ire today. Maybe I look too meek with pajamas and damp, sweaty hair. "I just forget how pure you are sometimes." He is visibly trying to fight a smirk and his closed eyes are only making him look more sly and I wrack my brain to understand what he means.

Oh. He's teasing me for not stripping right here, like he did.

And I suddenly sense a challenge in his demeanor. I don't know if I'm just in an off mood because of the temperature or if my comfortability with him has grown to new levels, but I sternly tell myself it's no different from wearing a bathing suit and, before I can lose my nerve, I nonchalantly pull off my pajama shirt, revealing my burned and mutilated olive skin underneath.

I purposely keep my eyes shut and pretend to covering my sight from the sun, so I can't see him, but when I hear nothing but silence for a long pause, I peak one lid open to see him gawking at me, wide-eyed, mouth open, before quickly adverting his gaze elsewhere.

And now I'm not the one blushing.

I grin, feeling vindicated, when he carefully shifts his body away from me, blatantly trying to disguise the move as reaching for his water bottle.

"What're you smiling about?" He deadpans a moment later, his eyes narrowing.

"Nothing," I say but my grin hasn't lessened and I'm starting to feel like Peeta in our first games, when he tried to get me to look at him naked at the lake.

Unexpectedly, I feel a large splash of water smack me square across the face. "Hey!" I exclaim, but it comes out as a giggle instead of a sound of indignation. "What was that for?"

"Sorry, Katniss," he professes but his tone says he's mocking me. "Thought I'd help. You looked hot."

"Thank you," I say cheekily without missing a single beat.

And for once he's the one who's slow to catch up, the roles between us reversing again from our norm.

"That's not what I meant-I mean, that's not what I was saying when I said..." he stutters over words in a way he so rarely does. In a way that provides me with immense satisfaction.

"What did you mean then?" I sit up now, coming to rest back on my heels, staring at him expectantly.

He finds his footing once again, a lot faster than I do when it's me who looks like an idiot, tripping over words and blushing. Of course, that is one of his special skills. Peeta always has been known to land on his feet, even when thrown during a conversation. "You know what I meant, Katniss."

"Do I?"

He sits up now too, the look in his blue gaze abruptly impish. "Yes, I think you do," he murmurs and the glint in his eyes throws me.

Still, I don't know if it's because this has turned into a game of squeamish chicken or if I just repel letting him or anyone else think of me as a prude, but refuse to show my apprehension. I refuse to show my confusion. Instead I choose to lean in closer in response to his words, hoping my silver irises don't offer any indication to how out of my league I actually feel.

If I felt out of my league though with the ambiguous flirting, I feel akin to a fish ripped out of its pond, to a deer yanked from the woods, when Peeta unexpectedly presses his lips to mine.

My first thought is that it feels like when he touches my lower back by mistake, when his hand grazes up and down my arm, when his lips lightly press against my neck in our hugs. Only stronger. Only the tingling sensation is matched by a warmth that starts in my lips and moves quickly to my stomach and then explodes across my entire body.

It's a sensation I haven't felt in so long, a sensation I've barely felt twice before in my life. Both times in arenas, in times when I didn't know if I'd be alive the next day, when I didn't know what I was really doing but I knew it wasn't for the cameras.

Both times I've felt this sensation before, it's been with him. I've only ever felt this way with him.

When his tongue grazes my bottom lip though I panic. Because I'm not planning on dying the next day or fighting to the death and I don't have a camera on me to play up a romance to and we're not in a war and this is completely unfamiliar territory to me. To kiss because I want to, because it gives me pleasure, because I could want more if I let myself, is something I've never once experienced.

I never wanted to get married or have kids or spend my life with anyone. I never wanted to count on another person in a such a way that losing them would mean effectively dying too. Not even now, as I spend every day with one person primarily, have I given any of my prior stances reconsiderations.

I never wanted to feel the way my mother felt for my father. The way that was so powerful that it nearly killed her when he died.

None of my thoughts are clear or concise as I fly myself backwards, my shoulder landing harshly against the grass, the blazing heat that was previously all consuming now not even a factor in my mind.

The only thought running through my head right now is that the last time I felt this way, I lost Peeta to Snow hours later.

That last night in the arena is tied to so much anxiety for me, anxiety I didn't realize I was carrying. Irrational anxiety that letting myself feel the way I felt on the beach also means opening myself up to the loss and grief I felt in Thirteen. Opening myself up to the agony that I did everything to stop from consuming me while he was held in the Capitol.

I must look like a frightened animal, because Peeta's face is no longer sly. It's not longer joking or sneaky or jovial. Instead, it's soft and concerned and another peculiar thought runs through my mind.

I find relief in the fact that he no longer needs an explanation for how I feel. That we've become so reliant on the other's presence, that he spends so much time with me, that he can practically read me like a book. That now he can just look at my expressions and understand what's coursing through my mind.

Sometimes this is a nightmare. At this precise moment, considering I can't even form proper words, it's a blessing.

"Katniss," he murmurs gently and leans closer, his hand touching my arm gently. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"Peeta, I... I don't know what is-"

"Shh," he hushes and his hand moves to my cheek. "It's okay. I should have waited for you to be ready before I-"

I don't know what's come over me today, I don't know if the weather has made me delirious or if I'm just tired and my inhibitions are low but his words are so sweet and understanding and Peeta that I can't stop myself. Acting in opposition to my words, I fling my mouth clumsily towards his and interlocks our lips again.

He returns my kiss automatically, though very bluntly surprised by the gesture. Still, his teeth nibble expertly on my lower lip and I open my mouth this time, prepared for the fluttering in my belly.

I'm not disappointed, as my stomach turns in a way that is more enjoyable than I could have imagined. The feeling is like my desire for water in this heat. No matter how much I drink, it's never enough to quench my thirst.

I feel the sensation suddenly move elsewhere, as his tongue touches mine. The feeling moves down lower and I pull away again, feeling scared and frazzled and hungry for more.

I don't look at his eyes that are so carefully watching me. Instead my focus trains on his lips and I have the strangest urge to trace his mouth with my pointer finger, wanting more than anything to touch him there with any part of my body, not just my lips.

But my tears sort of ruin that.

Already seemingly expecting it—God knows what my face must have look like. Probably confused and nervous and shocked and petrified, all at once—Peeta pulls me into his arms, my bra abruptly becoming the only barrier between our skin.

"It's okay," he whispers again, his lips purposefully now planting a kiss on my neck. "It's okay, Katniss."

"I'm not ready," is all that comes out and it doesn't even sound like me. It sounds like some foreigner invaded my body and is using my mouth, speaking in a crackling voice and with a noticeable sniffle.

"I know," Peeta says simply, rubbing my back to soothe me.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Katniss," he insists automatically. "You're just scared."

I pull away from him then, as the intimacy of our embrace hits me. Still, he rubs the top of my shoulder, his eyes remaining so soft and sweet.

"I can't-I can't do this," I sputter and clumsily bolt to my feet. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just can't-"

Even with one fake leg, he catches up to me easily. "Katniss, wait, please," he begs, and one of his arms wraps around the front of my waist, halting me into place, as his other hand unconsciously touches my exposed lower back. His chest is still naked and we're both still hot and sweaty, and it's all only adding to my anxiety. The involuntary sensation that develops in my stomach all over again as his fingers graze my hip only adds to my edginess.

"Peeta, we can't do this," I exclaim breathlessly, my limbs still shaking.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he states calmly, guiding my chin to look at him.

"It's not that," I correct, my voice still breaking. Out of embarrassment now, in large part.

I hope, in the back of my mind, that Haymitch won't come back now. One snide remark from him and I'll probably hide in my house for weeks on end.

Which won't even work because Peeta has a key to my door.

"It's not that," I try to repeat firmer. "It felt good, Peeta. Kissing you felt good. And it can't, because..." I break my eyes away, wanting more than anything to be able to just transport myself either into the house or backwards in time five minutes.

"Because?" He prompts, his brows furrowing.

"Because this will just lead to us both getting hurt. I can't give you what you want and you'll just end up hating me and I..." I struggle to form the next sentiment, because it's truly become such a source of trepidation for me as of late. For reasons I can't even name why. "I really don't want you to hate me."

He closes his eyes at that before moving his hands to sit on either side of my hips, holding me in front of him. I don't even see what his point is, other than to drive me even madder, since I already can't even feel my legs to walk away from him now.

"I could never hate you, Katniss," he promises, looking deeply into my eyes. I search his baby blues but find nothing but sincerity inside them.

"You did before," I murmur, because I just can't pretend his hijacking didn't happen.

"That wasn't me though," he says quietly, his brows growing even closer together. He's clearly more than a little confused. "You know that, don't you? That I never meant the things I said to you?"

His hand sifts through my damp hair, moving it out of my eyes, as I try to find the right words to explain. "But your hijacking was predicated on something. On your internal feelings or on the things you wouldn't say to my face."

"On my insecurities," he corrects. "Snow and his men took the things I was scared or frustrated with and they turned them into something evil. I could never truly hate you, Katniss." To punctuate his words, he brings one of my balled up hands to his lips. "No matter what."

I bite my lip, still feeling my eyes dampen though I know it's irrational. "I'm just so confused," I finally whisper, feeling more sick and vulnerable than I could ever convey with words.

"I know," he repeats again, looking just as lost as me.

"But I don't want-" I can't even clearly communicate to him how I feel. Every time I open my mouth, I just stumble disastrously all over the place. "I don't know what I want."

"Okay," he agrees easily, before slowly enveloping me into his still glistening arms. "You don't have to know. We'll do whatever you want, Katniss. However you want."

"That isn't fair to you," I insist, but willingly bury my face into his chest, where I feel safe. Safer than I've felt with anyone in close to a decade now.

"All I ever wanted is my arms now," he whispers into my hair, before planting a long kiss there. "All I ever wanted is right here."

////

A week later.

"Look at the sky," I sigh, uncharacteristically pensive. "Isn't it... pretty?"

Peeta chuckles like a manic next to me. "You're so drunk."

"No, you're drunk actually," I retort, but my tongue feels lazy and the syllables don't come out right.

"Yes," he confirms and a smile washes across his face that reminds me of when we sat across from each other in kindergarten. Every time I would accidentally look his way, he always gave me the same exuberant smile. "But you're drunk too."

"I'm not as drunk though," I counter, my gaze shifting back to the midnight purple sky, the stars gleaming down at us looking brighter than usual.

"You're both drunk," Haymitch barks from across the lot, looking more sober than I would have ever anticipated. He's inebriated on the daily, until his liquor runs out. I don't know why he chose not to engage in the alcohol on the one night it was socially acceptable to.

The Star Festival. It's a new tradition since the war and apparently, it's flying across the districts. We're probably the last place in this country to celebrate it, but that doesn't bother any of us from Twelve. After all, most of us are just happy to still have a home to celebrate in.

In all reality, the festival had nothing spectacular to offer. It was mainly some music, a lot of dancing, free food and all you want alcohol.

It's not something I typically would have engaged in, but Peeta was donating food from the bakery and Delly was insisting everyone from the district come and he was so excited about it and it's not like I had other plans—or like I ever have plans that don't include him—and somehow in the midst of all that, I ended up agreeing.

The festival wasn't much but I enjoyed myself more than I thought I would. I like dancing, as much as I refuse to admit it. And I'm good at it.

Winter nights that were no good for hunting or setting snares made me a good dancer. Or rather, Prim in the living room, begging me to teach her what I knew, begging me to practice with her what she learned in school, begging me to move around embarrassingly to whatever music we could get ahold of, made me a good dancer.

It was the memory that turned me to the alcohol cart. It was the twirling around in a crowd, my arms locked around Peeta's neck, moving so quickly that people around us turned to blurs. Many of those blurs had blonde hair. Many of those blurs took me back to nights long past, spinning around in a circle with a different blonde, until the world was a twirl of colors and laughs.

For a split second tonight, it had felt like I was dancing in a crowd filled with Prims. And for a long moment, I thought I wouldn't be able to stick around without breaking down.

But Peeta's eyes were so bright and the life that Snow and the war had sucked out of him was coming back more and more now, and I couldn't let myself ruin it. Not for memories that would be there to haunt me in the morning, not for the grief that was my constant companion every day of the week. Not for anything in the world.

So instead of running home, I hastily scampered over to the liquor table and drank myself tipsy before searching again for the boy with the bread in the buzzing crowd.

He had smelled the alcohol on my breath instantly when I wound my arms around his neck, but instead of questioning it, he chose rather to join in with me.

We never question why someone may be drinking at a celebration or event. Not just me and Peeta, but everyone in Twelve. The war took so much from all of us, things no one will ever utter or have the strength to explain. But if drinking eases the pain, then we as a community are willing to turn a blind eye in each other's direction. At least for one night.

"Hmmm, why're you sober?" I call across the yard, breaking my eyes from the stars but the sleepy smile remaining in it's place. I fix Haymitch with my stare, wondering again why someone who drinks his whole life away would choose today to remain in his right mind.

The older man shook his head before turning his gaze away to the geese in his yard. "Think he doesn't wanna talk to us," Peeta chirps next to me.

We both stumbled home with a quarter of the citizens of Twelve when the sky began to darken. At least half of the district must still be drinking and eating and dancing in the square. Peeta probably would have stayed longer but I suppose one look at me, getting drowsy and unstable on my feet and he thought it was a good time to part.

His strength isn't exactly up to par either at the moment, and since I made him carry me most of the way home, we both somehow ended up on my porch, with no immediate plans to enter through the front door of the house.

That simple fact is funnier to me still than it should be, and I can't stop myself from laughing at the memory of tangled limbs and shocked expressions as he drunkenly dropped me on the front steps.

"What?" Peeta asks, grinning again when seeing my face.

But I shake my head, and turn my gaze up towards the sky once more. "Hmm, tell me something nice," I whisper, the lithe in my voice as strong as my eyes feel weak. My lids grow heavier and heavier with each passing moment and I truly understand, maybe for the first time, maybe not since I got drunk the night the Quarter Quell was announced, why Haymitch passes out in his yard quite often.

"Nice?" Peeta repeats, his tone implying that he's very blatantly making fun of me.

"Yes, nice," I defend, my face turning to a mixture of a pout and a scowl. "So much of our lives have been ruined. Corrupted. Bad, bad, bad."

He full on guffaws now and I'm ready to shove him hard, but my arm feels too heavy to lift.

"Tell me something happy," I rephrase, turning to look at him with pleading eyes.

His hand reaches out automatically to touch my face, to brush my hair behind my ear. "Hmm, what qualifies for nice?" He thinks out loud. His blue shiny eyes turn upwards as well to gaze at the night and I can hear as he lets out an audible sigh. "My dad used to take me and Rye next door to the Cartwright's the night after Reaping Day. Even when I was too young to be chosen for the games, he still took the two of us after dark when my mom and Wheaton would go to sleep. And we would all eat sweets and play games and laugh and talk until the sun came up."

I stare at him, transfixed. Maybe a little bit due to my inebriation but still. The story once again conjured up the image of the blonde boy I barely knew, who would look at me from across the room.

"What about Wheaton?" I ask after a long moment, perplexed. "Didn't he want to go?"

"Katniss, Wheats was exactly like our mom. He liked order and structure and rules," Peeta explains, very matter-of-fact. Which is made amusing by his own drooping eyes. "He wasn't one for partying or celebrating or..." His voice grows weaker suddenly, and maybe it's because I lost a sibling too, maybe it's because I just know Peeta after everything we've been through, but I unconsciously find myself taking his hand and squeezing it knowingly.

I understand that even the things that may seem annoying about a person can become the very things that you miss most once they're gone.

He clears his throat conspicuously. "You tell me something nice now?" He requests, forcing a small smile on his still dazed with liquor face.

"I don't know anything nice," I admit sheepishly.

He gives me a look that's probably meant to be dark but his smirk ruins. "Yes, you do."

I turn towards the purple azure sky again, wracking my slow, intoxicated brain to think of just about anything. "My dad loved nights like tonight," I finally offer, though the words come out quiet and unsure.

"He did?" He prompts after a moment of pause.

"Mhmm," I confirm, nodding, my gaze still trained up above us. And it's odd, I find, because even though the hand in front of my face is blurry, even though I can barely see Peeta sitting a foot from me, I can see the silver and white stars lighting the dark up above us crystal clear, I can see the moon hanging against the deep sapphire, highlighting the serenity of the moment with exact clarity. I can see ten years back, staring up at an identical sky, the only sound in the air my dad's singing voice, lulling me to sleep.

"My dad used to sing on nights like this," I whisper, more to myself than to him.

But he hears it and his expression contorts into curiosity. "What did he sing?"

I shrug then, hoping he'll drop it. He doesn't. Not even close. His eyes fixate on my face, waiting patiently for me to speak again.

After a pregnant silence, not even sure what I'm doing and knowing I would probably never do this sober, I don't answer in words. Instead, I keep my eyes trained high above, and try to replicate the song and voice that caused the birds to fall quiet, that left this universe so many years ago, when I still needed him desperately.

"The moon was high in an autumn sky. The light cast down and you came outside. And the night filled the dark, with a thousand stars. Proving nothing was better, than where we are. In the pull of the moon, and the weight of the stars. You anchor me with all that you are. Like the stemming of the tide, the moon's attraction to the sea, you are, you are, all these things."

Peeta's eyes brighten immensely as I sing. I still refuse to look at him, but even in my peripheral vision I can see his irises lighting up like an asteroid is flying across them.

To my shock though, when I don't continue singing, he whispers the next lyrics. "A tea kettle whistle, deep within a home..."

My brows furrow deeply. "How do you know this song?" I'd never heard anyone but my dad sing it.

"From you. When we were kids..." He fumbles with his words in a way that can't be blamed on alcohol. In a way that let's me know he's feeling bashful and my heart melts a little in awe. "You used to sit on your dad's shoulders and sing as you guys walked through town."

I stare at him for a second, my brain reeling as the memory comes floating back. It was so long ago, I practically forgot times like those ever happened. In comparison to the rest of my life, those moments don't feel like reality.

But they are. There's only a tiny scrap of an image that dances behind my eyes but it's enough for me to realize he's telling the truth.

Just as I realize he's right, he murmurs quietly, looking rather insecure, "real or not real?"

"Real," I breathe, unable to understand how he can remember moments I shared with my dad that even I can't. "How do you remember that?"

His cheeks flush redder and it's his turn to stare up at the sky. "I told you in our first games. I remember everything about you. It's you that wasn't paying attention."

He's teasing me, I know. He's embarrassed himself and trying to deflect the heat. But still, I can't help but whisper, "I've been paying attention for a while now."

His blush deepens to scarlet and I let out a shameful giggle. His fair skin turns pink so easily, I almost want to touch it, put my hands on it, feel the warmth that resides there myself.

His words though, as he tries to segue into a new subject, break my focus away from my thoughts. "What's something else your dad sang to you? Something that no one else has heard?"

I don't have to reach too far to answer that. Other than The Valley or The Meadow Song—or The Hanging Tree, that now has a whole other connotation to it since the war—I rarely have ever reiterated the things my father would hum or croon. My memories of him, in large part, have been buried deep inside a box in the back of my mind for years. After all the times I've pushed away those images, that I've tried to forget those happier times, when life didn't hurt so badly and I still had a complete family, they almost hurt to conjure back up. They almost feel so deeply buried, that it's painful to find the key and open the lock on the box.

But the alcohol still swimming in my veins makes it easier and once again, I feel like I'm understanding my old mentor on a whole new level tonight.

"Oh darling, don't you feel the water rising? Rising up under my shoes. Thinking I might jump right in the water, just as long as I'm jumping in with you. My mama said, 'be looking out for trouble. No telling what a girl would do'. She says not to leap on into loving, but I'm alright, leaping in with you."

Peeta's staring at me with an awed look in his eyes as I turn my head away, a little rueful. I sigh, realizing I might be sobering up soon and living to regret this entire debacle. I take comfort though, in the fact that it's unlikely anyone but Haymitch has heard my singing or girlish giggling, and in spite of how caustic he's been at points, he doesn't really seem to care about me making a fool of myself. Now that I'm not on camera for the entire country to see, at least.

"Katniss, that was beautiful," Peeta whispers softly, his hand touching my hair again, moving it away to decimate the curtain it acted as over my face. He's got to be a little drunk still too, because he can barely form the words. And that's not common in the least for Peeta Mellark. "That was..."

I shrug it off, trying to treat it with nonchalance. "My dad sang all the time so..."

"Did he write that song?" Peeta asks suddenly, finding his footing again in the conversation.

"Yeah. About my mom. He wrote a lot of songs himself, actually. Or made them up on the spot. He just usually preferred to sing the ones his mom taught him."

Peeta's brows draw together. "I've never heard of your dad's mother?" He admits, looking around, like the woman would appear through thin air.

"She was long dead before I was born," I inform, and touch his face softly to bring his attention back to me. "She died or something when my dad was nine. I don't know. I wasn't old enough for either of my parents to tell me the story before the mines exploded and my mom didn't like talking about my dad after. It doesn't really matter anyway, in the grand scheme of things. My dad just got his musical ability from her and he taught me a lot of the same songs she taught him."

A beat passes between us, where I can tell Peeta wishes to ask me a question. But he's measuring me, to decide if it's okay to say.

I should appreciate the consideration he's offering me. But instead I just feel annoyed that he's censoring whatever it is running through his head.

Finally, I lose my patience and blankly implore, "just ask me whatever you're thinking," in a tone that's brighter than it would be with my sobriety.

"Would you ever pass down songs like that to your kids one day?"

My stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with my intoxication. "Peeta," I say slowly, biting my lip—and finding that it's not at all painful to gnaw on right now. It's odd, I didn't know alcohol could numb my lips. "That's not going to happen."

His face becomes perplexed again and I feel my heart beat harder, for reasons I don't even understand. I don't care—or I shouldn't care, that is—what he thinks of my stance. After all, we're not together. We're not married. He's not asking me to have his babies. He didn't even imply that my kids one day would be his.

But I can't shake the idea that I'm probably letting him down with these words and I feel my heart hit my throat as I speak. "I'm never going to have kids, Peeta," I state, as firmly as I can.

He takes that and absorbs it silently for a long moment. A long moment that practically drives me insane.

Insane enough that I start carrying on again. "I just-I can't. Not in the world we lived in. I know everyone claims it's going to be different now but I just can't make myself believe that it'll never turn around again and we won't end up right where we started-"

He pulls my face towards him, holding my chin very gently until I meet his wide baby blues. "Okay," he whispers, and it's an affirmation and a promise in one. "That's okay, Katniss. You don't want kids, then you don't want kids."

I don't know what possesses me to say the next words that expel themselves from my lips. We're not a couple. He didn't ask me to have children with him. I don't know why I feel obligated to acknowledge this fact, but it's going to gnaw at me until I do.

"But you want kids," I murmur, my eyes pleading with an apology.

I don't even know how I am aware of this fact, that he wishes for a family one day, but it's just something I can feel in my bones somehow.

Peeta himself is imbedded in my bones, buried beneath my skin, inside my veins, in ways I can't even describe. In ways I am, still myself, discovering.

"I did," he admits honestly, letting go of my chin now and dropping his hand. I miss the contact as soon as he lets go. "But that was before everything else that happened."

My lower lips juts out in a stupid pout, as the idea that Snow and Coin and the games, and me myself, took his hopes and aspirations for life hits me.

"I don't want you to give anything up," I say, but my voice is becoming raspy and my lids are getting even heavier, and I know it'd be in both our best interest to continue this conversation in the morning, when we're no longer under the influence.

He still understands me somehow. "Katniss, things change. The games and the war and everything else... it changes things."

Don't I know it? Like the back of my hand.

I still don't like the vague nature of his answer though. "What things change?" Because last I checked, children or no children was a pretty huge thing to just change your mind about.

"How I feel," he replies easily, his tone even and truthful. "The way I view things. What I prioritize. What I really want. What's important to me."

His words only make the lump in my throat grow larger and I can't even explain to myself why. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't want the same things I wanted as sixteen."

I know for a fact I probably wouldn't be asking this if I were sober. "You don't want any of the same things you wanted then?" I press, my voice uneven.

Peeta takes in my words for a second before abruptly clocking the apprehensive look in my eyes. His expression morphs directly under my gaze. "What?"

"There's still one thing I want that I wished for back then," he says, his eyes soft and bright and as glittery as the stars hanging high above us as they rest upon my face. "There's still one thing I want that the war didn't change. That nothing could ever change."

////

Five days later.

I awake to a soft, gleaming light shining in my eyes. It takes next to no time or brain capacity to realize it's the morning sun beaming in through the window Peeta keeps open.

"Mmm," I mumble, wishing for more sleep. I can sense that it's earlier than the usual time I rise. I should have a bit longer to slumber.

But the very warm figure laying next to me seems to have other plans. Plans that don't include letting me fall back asleep.

Peeta's hand rubs my back softly and I almost purr on instinct at the sensation. "You can keep doing that," I whisper, my eyes remaining shut but a smile evident in my tone.

He chuckles, coming to lean on one elbow above me. "I suppose I could..."

I click my tongue, cracking my eyes open just to roll them. "But you just want to tease me."

He laughs now, his hand sweeping over my shoulders one more time as he speaks. "I was thinking of getting up. Opening the bakery early this morning."

I shake my head before he's even finished speaking. "My back rub is more important."

I hear him open his mouth to reply but his hand suddenly stills in it's place on my spine and his lips seem to freeze too. "Did that hurt?" He asks, his tone caught between confused and concerned.

"No?" I mumble, puzzled, and shut my eyes again, thinking if he isn't going to offer his services he might as well get up and stop disturbing me.

"No, seriously, did that hurt you?" He presses down on the same spot again as his tone starts gaining urgency.

I sigh and roll over to glance at him, forcing my eyes to stay open begrudgingly. "Did what hurt me, Peeta?"

"There's a part of your back that feels... sharp?"

I roll my eyes, grasping his confusion now. "Peeta, I was on fire." When his eyes still hold no comprehension, I try again. "When the bombs went off? When I tried to save my sister?" I say the words as emotionless as possible, but it still makes my throat sting to utter the syllables. It still makes my chest ache to accept Prim's death that day as a simple fact and I do my best to move on quickly. "You knew that-"

"No, I did," he cuts off, but his eyes are glazed over now. "I just didn't know how poorly your skin had healed?"

"Thanks for that."

He shoots me a wry look. "You know what I mean, Katniss. The doctors could have done more for you-"

It's my turn to interrupt him now. "They did. The Capitol doctors tried to heal me as good as new—as good as your skin. I just messed it up while in solitary confinement." I offer only a shrug, because in the grand scheme of everything that's happened, I can't make myself care if my skin is ugly or healed with jagged edges or uneven patterns.

"Messed it up?" He inquires gently, his eyes growing further away from confusion and more towards concern.

"After I killed Coin, I clawed, I guess... it's not my sharpest memory. But I clawed violently at the new skin the doctors gave me until it tore and bled," I admit sheepishly, turning my eyes purposely towards the sun and away from the saddened blue eyes boring into my skull.

He doesn't respond at first. No, he doesn't say anything at all for a long moment. Instead I continue to feel his gaze on me, trying to work through what I just said.

His fingers on my forehead, tenderly brushing my hair out of my eyes, is what inspires me to glance his way again. "Did you do it because you wanted to hurt yourself?" He asks kindly, with no judgement in his tone. "After you lost Prim and everything else?"

Prim and everything else. He has that about right.

Well, I suppose I didn't lose everything.

"Yeah, I guess," I say, though I can't even inflict confidence in my words.

I feel him lean down and kiss my forehead softly. "Well, I'm glad you didn't succeed," he whispers and I cup his cheek with my hand.

"Me too," I agree, uttering words I never thought a few months ago I'd say. But they're the truth. I am glad I'm still here. Still here, in spite of my grief, in spite of my pain and all the hurt and loss and damage. I'm glad I'm able to be here with Peeta now, to find happiness with him despite all the people who tried to make that impossible.

Peeta turns his head to kiss the inside of my palm and then murmurs, "roll over for me?"

My brows wrinkle together. "Why?"

He rolls his eyes and laughs. "Just do it, Katniss."

I do as he requests, but it seems like the moment I do, he hops up from the bed. "What's going on?" I call, my turn to be puzzled now. I hate surprises. I hate not knowing what's happening, even if I immensely trust the person.

As much as I can trust another person, when I don't even fully trust myself.

I hear Peeta's loud footsteps thunking across the floorboards as he re-enters the room. "Sorry, I had to grab something," he explains and comes to sit on my side of the bed. He sits upright, his hip against mine, and my confusion only grows.

"What're you doing?" I inquire again. But then, I suddenly have a pretty good idea once I see the jar in his hands. "Peeta, you really don't have to."

"I want to," he says and his tone has a forlorn edge to it. "I want to take care of you." His admission causes something in my chest to open up and flutter, causes a warm sensation I didn't know I was capable of feeling to fill me.

"Okay," I agree quietly, and lay still while he pulls my shirt up, exposing my charred back, full of scar tissue, to him.

I don't know exactly what it looks like, because I have never once actually looked at my backside in the mirror, but I know from scrubbing in the shower it is rough and uneven and probably unsightly. The rest of my skin is different shades of red, olive and pink, all in streaks across my body. I can only imagine my back looking far worse.

Still, Peeta doesn't make a sound of disdain or repulsion. Instead he runs his hand gently over my matted flesh and traces the same spot he felt before. The spot that's particularly rough and ruined.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," he whispers so quietly I doubt I was even meant to hear it.

And I know he isn't talking solely about catching on fire and being covered in burns and scars. I know he's talking about everything else the war took from me.

"A lot happened to you too, Peeta," I murmur as he opens the jar he went and fetched.

"I know," is all he says and it's all he has to say. We've both survived more than any two people should. We've survived the destruction of nearly everything we ever cared about.

Except for each other. That's one thing the war and all it's cruelty didn't completely steal away.

It's close to the only thing the war and all it's cruelty didn't completely steal away.

I feel his gentle hands firmly press the medicinal cream from the glass jar into my back, firmly press the concoction my mother sent months ago into my ruined skin. And it feel so good, to have his big, warm hands rubbing the body that I tried to destroy.

I close my eyes in pleasure and try not to let him know how much I'm enjoying the massage. I try to not show how much it means to me that he cares enough to do this, that I wish I'd had the guts to ask him sooner.

He rubs from my shoulders to my ribs, all the way down to the bottom of my spine. When he reaches my lower back I can't help but grin noticeably.

"Does this feel good?" He asks, his own smile evident in his voice.

I nod, a little too enthusiastically, keeping my eyes shut and resting my cheek against the bed.

"Good," he says, satisfied, and then out of the blue hesitates. I don't think much of it, too lost in the tingling that's running up and down my back, that remains even without his hands still touching my bare skin.

But my eyes suddenly fly open when his lips touch my shoulder. And then the middle of my spine. And then in the dead center of my back.

When his mouth touches the back of my ribs lightly, I realize he's kissing the worst of my mutilation. He's kissing the worst of my scars.

I'm at a loss for words, unable to articulate exactly how I feel, other than touched and cared for and safe, and I know I can't say any of those things because it'll never come out right, so instead I carefully pull my shirt downwards and roll over to face him.

Sitting up, feeling his soft gaze watching me carefully, I do the only thing I can think of to repay him. The only thing I want to do.

"You were burned too," I whisper, my voice light and airy and almost unrecognizable.

"Yeah?" He confirms, his own voice no louder than a breath.

I swallow as subtly as I can and slowly—and nowhere near as confidently as I wish—lift his shirt now as well. "Let me take care of you," I say, still feeling entirely out of my element.

I see the ghost of a smile tip up the corner of his mouth. "Okay," he agrees easily and helps me remove his shirt, tossing it to the side of the bed.

I don't know why it didn't fully hit me when we laid out in the sun on that hot day. Maybe because it was so warm that I could barely think. Maybe because he was challenging me and my mind was on proving him wrong, proving that I wasn't a prude, proving I wasn't so pure.

But either way, I didn't realize until now, how much muscle Peeta had gained back since we'd been home.

I should have expected it, as Dr. Aurelius is all about workout regiments to help heal the mind too or some other nonsense my mother backs up. I don't listen or follow through with the plans given to me by the Capitol doctor but Peeta follows it to a tee and apparently now it's showing.

I swallow hard and do my best not to gawk as I reach for the cream. I can see Peeta's smile transform into a smirk but he genuinely tries to suppress it and I'm already too diffident to call him on it.

I gently try to spread the medicine over his chest, where I can see the places the burns turned pink that were once the fair color of his flesh. I notice once again that his skin lays in a much more cohesive pattern than mine. He also has little to no raised skin and there's a small part of me that's embarrassed now that he saw what I did to my body in my worst moments of life. In the moments when I thought I had nothing left to live for.

I can't help but feel suddenly grateful again that I kept going, no matter how much I didn't want to, so I could be here now. So I can be here with him in this moment right now.

I rub my hands gently across his chest, down his stomach, feeling the muscles contract under my palms. I rub in a soothing, circular motion, that I hope feels as nice for him as what he did for me.

My fingertips tingle as it traces his skin and I have to bite my lip to repress an kittenish smile.

I don't know if it's because my nerves are so evident or if he's feeling the same but Peeta suddenly starts talking, in a hushed, gentle tone, as if to calm me or calm himself.

"I did know you got caught in the fire," he suddenly informs. Off my slightly confused look, he elaborates. "What you said before? I knew you'd been burned when the bombs went off. I just didn't know your skin hadn't healed completely."

I nod, not sure exactly where he's taking this. He essentially just stated the obvious. "Yeah, they told me you were in the hospital when I woke up," I say after a beat of silence. Thinking that's where he must have heard about me getting caught in the fire too.

His eyes transform into solid blue waters, something in his gaze now alerted. "Did they tell you why I was there?"

I still my hand from rubbing his bicep now, my eyes breaking away from admiring the pink and cream patterned swirls. Glancing up at him, perplexed by his shift in attitude, I raise an eyebrow questioningly. "Because you made it to the square and somehow were there when the bombs went off?"

That's just basic logic, I thought? I can't seem to grasp what I must be missing that he's-very slowly-trying to tell me.

"Yeah," he confirms, but his eyes flicker with something else. Just when I'm about to tell him to spit whatever he's thinking out, he adds, "that's right enough. But the truth is," he pauses, probably to collect his thoughts before speaking, but it feels to me like he's taking a dramatic pause. "I got burned putting you out."

I drop the glass jar of healing cream, letting it spill a little on the bedspread. My mouth hangs open in response, trying to comprehend his words.

Peeta rushed into the fire to put me out? That's how he got burned himself? That's why he was hospitalized?

It doesn't make any sense. He was still hijacked then? He was still fighting against himself, his instincts screaming to kill me? Peeta and my relationship was all but destroyed at that point? Why would he rush forward to save me? At the risk of his own life?

But then again, why did he rush forward to save me after I shot Coin?

Let me go!

I can't!

He's still waiting, looking rather nervous, for my response now. "Peeta," I croak, and my gaze flits from his naked chest to his wide, pretty eyes to his chest again to the floor boards and back. "Why?" I finally ask and the word comes out rather strained. "Why would you want to save me?"

He shoots me a knowing look. "Why do you think?"

And though I know what he's saying without needing him to verbalize, I can't accept that as his reason. "But you hated me?" I don't know if my eyes have ever looked so confused by anything in my life. At least, not since he announced on national television that he had a crush on me.

"Katniss," he murmurs with a sigh and gives me an exasperated smile that is so cute, I don't know why, but in the midst of everything else, I suddenly can't seem to stop my heart from pounding hard in my chest. "I never hated you. Not really. I wasn't myself and-"

His words are cut off by a sudden movement. A sudden movement that I don't even register I'm going to do until my lips are on his, my tongue already trying to move into his mouth, my arms throwing themselves around his neck. I feel his bare skin through my thin t-shirt and I feel the warmth pooling in the pit of my stomach, the tingling sensation building up in my chest before exploding across my entire being.

But the kiss doesn't last long. As soon as my brain catches up to what I'm doing, as soon as I realize my own actions, I feel myself internally panic and yank my mouth off his roughly.

"I'm sorry!" I instantly exclaim, my eyes frightened.

He, pathetically in my case, expects this reaction. Just like on the day in the sun. He even smiles a little. "Katniss, it's okay," he promises and takes my hands, pulls my body close to him again.

I willingly rest my head in his shoulder, my back relaxing when his hand starts massaging it soothingly. "I promised you, you were in control," he whispers in my ear, and it tickles and I can't help but squirm a little. "We'll do whatever you're comfortable with, whenever you're comfortable with it."

It may be embarrassment or it could just be me re-focusing on the importance of our previous conversation, but I lean my head up then and rather hoarsely murmur, "you tried to save me?"

His small smile grows, as his eyes soften noticeably. "Of course I tried. Because that's what you and I do."

I feel the corners of my own mouth tug upwards now, the words from the tunnels on the tip of my tongue. "We protect each other."

////

Two weeks later.

"Brutus' tribute stuck him through the gut at the Cornucopia," Haymitch says with storm clouds fluttering in his silver eyes. "It was unexpected. He was good stock for Twelve. Tall. Lots of muscle. Probably had already been in the mines a bit. He had as good of a chance as anyone, he just... he didn't believe he could win. He already defeated himself before he even went into the arena. I didn't help the equation much. I didn't stay sober enough to really coach him but... didn't make the spear in his stomach any easier to see."

I nod attentively, subtly trying to decide if my old mentor was past his usual limit of alcohol for one evening. He doesn't take it well when me or Peeta force the bottle from his hand, but he is gruffly thankful when he realizes that rationing it a bit means that he has to white knuckle it less days of the month, until the train brings more in it's shipment to Twelve.

Next to us, Peeta finishes his final sketch of Jerome Barker, tribute for the sixty-eighth Hunger Games. The one who died far sooner than expected, because he refused to try. Because he knew the odds were stacked against him and he wanted to put his family and friends out of their misery as soon as possible.

I can't help but aquatint Haymitch's words, 'He had as good of a chance as anyone, he just... he didn't believe he could win. He already defeated himself before he even went into the arena' to another person in the room.

I don't even want to think about what easily could have transpired with Peeta, if no one had ever pushed his beaten down demeanor away, if I'd just allowed him to give up before we even started training.

After a lifetime of being torn down though, it isn't easy for anyone to just start believing in themselves.

It's pathetic how many people in Panem can relate to that statement.

Haymitch gulps another swig of his liquor and I see Peeta glance up from his sketch, his mouth contorting peculiarly, and I know our thoughts are in line with each other.

I let him take the floor with the caustic, old man, knowing our mentor's preference for Peeta over me. "Haymitch, you're going to regret drinking all that when you have none left."

"Shut it, boy," he snaps and then takes a bigger gulp, clearly just to spite us.

I don't have the energy to fight with Haymitch tonight. Especially not after hearing about more of his fallen tributes. The stories were depressing enough when they only got a moment of attention during their games, let alone by a person who had a front row seat to a play by play of their whole run in the arena.

And I can't imagine how dark these stories must be for Haymitch to regale. There's even a small part of me that's grateful in hindsight that I didn't have to live through even one year of being a mentor to kids who were surely doomed.

Although it's not as if reality turned out any better, as surely thousands upon thousands of kids died in the war. I try to release my lip from my teeth's grip and push these thoughts away.

"And Heather Plaine..." Haymitch all of a sudden adds. "She didn't last long either. But no one thought she would. Little thing. Tiny even. Tinier than you, Sweetheart."

"I remember," I say, his addition doing nothing to help my own dark thoughts. The girl, Heather Plaine, had also been from the Seam, as most of our tributes were. She was not much bigger than I was that year, despite her having six years on me. My dad was still alive in her games and I remember him being particularly furious about her death. He knew her father from the mines. He had told me she'd never been given enough to eat in her life, with four siblings younger than her. She never stood a chance in an arena.

My dad had openly hated the corruption, the inequity, the blatant favoritism this country displayed for as long as I could remember. Unlike my mother, he hadn't bothered disguising it either.

I feel the oddest since of pride suddenly. For one fleeting moment, I have the strangest sense my father would be proud of me for playing the role of the Mockingjay, for setting alight the revolution many were waiting for, for fighting when I didn't think I could even go on.

In spite of all the mistakes I made. In spite of all I didn't see until it was too late. In spite of all my failures. For a moment I think of the joy the end result of the war would bring my dad.

I'm so lost in my own thoughts, in my own reminisce, that it isn't until Peeta drops a handful of knives and they clangs cacophonously to the floor that I even realize he's no longer sitting at the table.

When I hear him make no attempt to gather the silverware up, I know immediately he's having an episode.

"Peeta?" I call, my heart skipping a beat, entirely out of fear now. A sensation I hoped to never relive ever again.

He doesn't respond at all, and I know the flashback must be bad. On an average day, when his episodes are just minimal, he'll sometimes murmur in a strained voice, "hang on," or even, "give me a second," in a choked breath.

When he doesn't say anything at all, I rise from my seat quicker than I know I should, and make my way into the kitchen. Our mentor abruptly puts his bottle down and waits, even aware while drunk of the dire consequences Peeta's episodes can have.

I round the corner to the kitchen and see Peeta standing at the counter, his back to me. His head is hunched over and his spine is curved in a way that looks absolutely miserable and I can see he's crying.

"Peeta?" I whisper, afraid if I make a noise too loud he'll lose the minuscule amount of control he's hanging onto.

To my surprise though, his head turns in my direction and I see his sweet blues, framed through his long blonde lashes that are now clinging with tears.

His eyes are desperate and terrified and pained and when I take a step closer, I realize he's gripping the counter so tight the bones in his hands are blatantly visible.

And I can't stop myself from trying to comfort him. I can't stop myself from trying to absorb his pain, no matter how much of my own I'm carrying inside.

I fling myself at him just as he turns his back to me again and hangs his head low, feeling desolate and trapped and alone.

I wrap my arms around his waist tightly, my face burrowing directly into the back of his blue shirt, inhaling the scent of vanilla and cinnamon and fear and Peeta himself.

My hands begin to caress his stomach unconsciously, wanting desperately to console him in any way I know how. "Peeta, it's okay," I whisper against his spine, my forehead pressed to his shoulder blades. "I'm here, Peeta. You're safe."

At my reassurances, his mouth falls open and one heartbroken sob falls out.

I feel something stab unforgivingly at my heart and my own eyes fill up with saltwater. Pressing my lips gently to his back, I murmur again, "it's not real, Peeta. You're here with me. I won't let anything else happen to you."

His head shakes from side to side, like he doesn't want to hear my words. Like the promise is too painful to believe.

I can't just let him continue to suffer while doing nothing though. I can't just walk away. My hands rub his stomach again and move slowly upwards to massage his chest, my entire body molding over his to the best of my ability.

"I'm sorry," I suddenly rasp out, the tears from the inside of my lids flowing freely now. "I'm so sorry that they left you behind. I'm sorry I let them hurt you. I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop it. But I promise, I'll die before they ever do it again."

His trembling doesn't quit, his posture doesn't improve and he still doesn't look me in the eye. But I feel one of his hands slowly let go of the counter, I feel him gently grasp my palm, pulling it away from his stomach and bringing it upwards. I feel him bring my hand to his lips and I hear his quiet cry as he whimpers, "no, Katniss. Never," rather distinctly.

I squeeze his hand tighter in response. "I swear on my life, Peeta, no one will ever touch you again."

He doesn't seem to hear me this time though. Instead, he croaks out a reiteration of his previous sentiment. "I'll never let them hurt you. I'll never let them do to you what they did to me."

"Peeta," I croak but he's not finished.

"I'll always protect you. No matter what."

Chapter Text

Nine days later.

"Katniss?" Peeta whispers thickly, his tone indicative of his demeanor.

"Hmm?" I murmur as I set the memory book aside. I brought it over today, specifically for Peeta's sake. In hopes the book we've created, to commemorate the lives of those we loved and lost and still grieve, will help ground him in his moment of deep despair.

When I woke up today and he was gone, when there was no note on my kitchen table nor a loaf of bread sitting on my countertop, when the bakery's sign hadn't been flipped to read Open, I knew that Peeta was having an episode.

Not an episode akin to the ones in which he grips the doorframes and backs of chairs, but an episode all the same.

Sometimes his episodes can look much more like my own than I realize. Sometimes his episodes are sitting in a dark room, thinking of every which way he could have made different choices, gone down altering paths, prioritized different objectives in critical moments. Sometimes it's his thoughts that paralyze him, and he's unable to move, to get up and go about with his ordinary daily routine. Sometimes his mind gets stuck inside the now decimated arenas, trying to think his way out of situations in which me and him lacked more control than we even knew at the time. Because we didn't know about the plans for revolution and we didn't know about the secret code of the alliances we'd formed and we didn't know we were already pawns in a much bigger game. Sometimes Peeta's episodes consist of lying on his back on his couch, counting the specks on the ceiling, touching the inside fabric liner of the sofa cushions, digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms until blood seeps out, because at the very least, all of those things are real.

Sometimes his triggers and the outcome are scarily identical to mine, and I don't even realize it until they've abruptly come and blindsided us both.

That's what happened today. And that's why I found him in his own Victor's Village home—that he rarely uses nowadays—staring at absolutely nothing, murmuring the names of all who died in front of his helpless eyes. Both in the games and in the Capitol.

Gratitude for my dark days is rare but it hits me, like the Capitol train storming across the tracks, when I see him today. Because I knew exactly how to make him better and that gives me unparalleled relief. Knowing what to do, having some semblance of control, feeling in power, gives me inexplicable relief.

Of course, it doesn't stop that deep aching feeling from spreading across my chest. It doesn't help my glistening eyes when Peeta's crystal blues pour out with teardrops like a rain cloud. It doesn't help me in overcoming his refusal to eat and nourish himself today.

I skipped hunting this morning, used my key to enter through his front door, and all but instantaneously clocked his figure strewed across the couch. I got him water and stroked his messy blonde curls and, when he finally turned his head in my direction, cupped his cheek.

I don't refuse him a single thing on these days. Just like he doesn't refuse me when the situation is reversed.

When he leans upwards, fumbling slightly, and reaches for me, I easily climb into his arms. I sit with him, breathing him in deeply, no words necessary for exchange. I know what he's thinking, what he's asking, without his bright pink lips that lay in strict contrast to his pale skin needing to open.

I cuddle close to him, or he cuddles close to me, and we sway back and forth, forward and back, for nearly an hour.

His tears hit the collar of my hunting jacket, then travel to the exposed flesh on top of my chest, where the jacket lays open and my shirt doesn't cover.

I kiss his forehead gently, my mouth lingering there for a long series of moments. He seems to give into the gesture, crumbling as my lips make contact, and immediately burrows his face into where my throat attaches with my shoulder.

He made fresh bread two days back, which I can only assume he intended to bring over to my house and share. But he never brought the loaf over and he never ate a slice of it himself and the grain looks too desolate just sitting on top of the granite tile counter, and I've never been able to stomach permitting food to expire.

I coaxed him into eating a slice, giving into his silent urging without protest to eat alongside him. I succeed in getting him to down a half-full glass of the goat's milk I traded for with Powell Grosser three days back, when the old man came into the bakery and couldn't afford the second loaf of bread he so desperately desired.

"Katniss?" Peeta prompts again and I set down the memory book this time.

"Yeah?" I card my fingers through his messy locks, my finger tracing a shape across his forehead as he lays his head on my lap exhaustively.

"Tell me a story?" He whispers with a plead in his tone. "Anything you can think of, I don't even care what. I just... I have to get my mind off..."

He doesn't finish his sentence but he's more than aware there's no need to. I know all too well the list of things potentially coursing through his mind.

Captivity in the Capitol, tortured and beaten and starved and brainwashed. Stuck inside an arena, a cave, along the riverbank, by the water on the beach. Being a pawn in the game he never intended to play.

An odd story pops into my head then, one of the things that my father used to share with me when I was a kid and he took me to the woods with him while my mother stayed home with Prim. I wrack my brain for any other tales but none come to mind and I decide that the one I have is better than nothing at all.

"My father used to tell me these stories when I would go hunting with him," I start, feeling more than a little silly for sharing this. I don't even know why, other than it seems to irrelevant and gossipy.

Then again, I'm talking to the person who, while suffering from blood poisoning in the middle of a death match, recalled his father telling him he wanted to marry my mother. Recalled his kindergarten crush on me. So perhaps this story is right up Peeta's ally.

He waits patiently, but the dispirited look in his eyes is contrasted now by a glimmer of curiosity, and I decide to tell the story, even if it is stupid.

"Years ago, there was a woman who lived in the Seam. She moved here when she was really young and always felt like an outcast in Twelve. She had a fractured family and most of them were dead anyways, by the time she reached adulthood. But she was talented. She could sing. Anyone who heard her voice would stop whatever they were doing and watch. Even if they hated her-stop looking at me like that, Peeta." I suddenly scowl down at him, as his eyes sparkle wryly.

"You sang songs throughout a revolution that inspired the country-"

"Me and you refusing to kill one another is what inspired the country. My singing had nothing to do with it."

"It had something to do with it."

"Do you want me to tell this story or not?" I ask sternly and in turn, he pretends to zip his lips and throw away the key, before relaxing his head further into my lap. I roll my eyes at him now, hard.

"Go on," he encourages, his tone seemingly brighter now than it's been all morning. The thought brings a smile to my face.

"This woman ended up searching for love in all the wrong men. Usually Peacekeepers and merchants who wouldn't claim her as their girlfriend. She was beautiful apparently, but poor. The poorest there was. But then, when she was nineteen, she met a man from the Seam who was kind and considerate and funny. And she loved him instantly." Peeta's face is losing so much of it's desolate undertone that I almost decide to alter the story and leave large, important chunks out.

He, of course, sees the hesitation in my features. "So what came between this woman and her lover?"

I gnaw on my lip, fighting a smirk. "Stop reading my expressions."

"Hard not to when you make them so obvious," he shoots back. "But seriously. Keep going. You've official intrigued me."

"Turns out the man she loved was expected to marry another girl. A younger girl who was from the Seam and was well liked there and who's family was respectable. And who's family actually saved enough money to throw a real wedding. And he didn't want to let his parents down so he chose to marry the other girl instead of the one who really loved him."

Peeta's blonde brows furrow. "That's so... miserable?"

I continue as if he hadn't spoken. "But the girl never knew about any of this and she hired the scorned woman to sing at the wedding. Since she had the prettiest voice in Twelve. And instead of turning down the job, the woman showed up and even brought them a present. The lilies the man had given her once as a gift."

I'm pleased when Peeta chuckles at this, clearly intent on this tale now. As intent as I was with it, when my dad first told it to me nearly a decade ago. "How'd that go over?" He asks.

"Obviously, not wonderful. The bride realized that the woman is his ex-lover. Especially after she sang song after song after song during the reception about men making promises and then breaking them."

"This scorned woman sounds like fun."

Once again, I bypass that. "Eventually the bride forces her husband and the woman into a coat closet with her and makes them tell her the truth. And that's when the scorned woman decides to reveal that she's pregnant with the man's baby."

Peeta looks at me now, bewildered. "You're kidding?"

"Nope." I pop the p, very satisfied with his reaction.

"What happened after that?"

"The scorned woman left. And she planned to run away, up north. To where we know Thirteen was, but she wasn't aware of that at the time. She just wanted to run away from everyone in Twelve." I wish my father was here suddenly. I wish he could tell this story instead of me. He knew how to get people riveted, he knew how to capture their attention or how to express the smallish details with colorful imagery.

I suddenly wish my father could have known Peeta and I feel my heart ache a little at the definitive fact that he never will.

"Did she?" Peeta prods after a beat of silence.

"No. No, actually the man she loved realized after his wedding he'd made a mistake. He realized he'd married wrong and he actually went to annul the marriage." This also inspires a look of puzzlement from Peeta, as this is not the kind of thing that's common for either the Seam or merchants in Twelve. "He came to her doorstep and begged her to take him back. Swore up and down he'd make it up to her and he'd give her the life she deserved. Swore that he wasn't doing this because she was pregnant, it was because he really loved her."

"And what happened?" Peeta presses, his curiosity overtaking his entire face, much to my delight. My desire was to distract his mind from it's horrors and this story evidently had done just that.

I rub Peeta's scalp now, massaging his head tenderly. "She took him back. Married him only weeks later. Had his baby and then another years later."

His eyes still look confused. "That simple?"

I chuckle, though I don't even know why. "Sometimes love is simple, I guess?"

At that, he snorts. And opens his mouth to speak, to surely say something either witty or sarcastic. But instead, nothing comes out and he closes it after a moment, before altering his question. "Do you think this story is real?"

"Yes, I do," I say now, smirking a little. "My father said it was, at least."

Peeta matches his smirk, though it still seems iffy if he believes the story. "Did he know this woman personally?"

"Well, she was his mother."

At that, Peeta shot up, his head flying out of my lap just as I rake my fingers through his curls again. "What?"

"Yeah, imagine my surprise," I agree and then laugh. "I was eight when my father told me this story. I had no idea about any of this and then one day he told me this dramatic tale of his parents and their relationship."

He copies my laugh now too. "This was the woman who taught your dad all those songs?"

"Yup."

"Who died before you came along?"

"My father's whole family were all long dead by the time I was born." And now he is too. As is his youngest daughter, I think darkly to myself.

Peeta seems to read my mind though and moves his head to touch my cheek. "Come here," he murmurs and I greedily scoot forward to curl up against him again.

"Sorry, that story had a depressing ending," I whisper against his shoulder where I lay my cheek.

"No, I liked it," he insists, but I see a flicker of sadness—and something else I cannot place—in his gaze. "I like hearing about your family. I like hearing about anything connected to you."

I scoff at that. "I'm not that interesting."

It's his turn to ignore me. "Did your grandparents live a happy life until they passed?"

"That I know of. Though they didn't die together. She died years before him," I abruptly add.

"How'd she die?"

"I'm not sure," I say lightly, my hand searching for his still shaking one, still silently trying to bring him some comfort on his dark day. And as much as I would like to fill his head with this nonsense, I know there's something more pressing brewing beneath his gaze.

"Did your dad ever tell you?"

"I'd rather you tell me something. What's bothering you?" I urge, keeping my voice even and noncombative, in order to keep him relaxed.

He refuses too quickly though. "Nothing's bothering me."

"I can tell my story put something else on your mind," I blatantly call out now. "You get a certain look in your eyes when something brings you down." Maybe it's a look everyone gets in their gaze, but I only ever clock it with Peeta. I only ever notice it in his baby blues.

He remains rigid, seemingly not even breathing for a long moment. Finally though, I feel him relent and let out a sigh. "It was the... your grandfather choosing the other girl from the Seam at first. Choosing her because that's what everyone expected him to do. That's who he was expected to marry."

I know where his mind is, but I still ask, "What does that have to do with me and you?"

As soon as I say the words, I kick myself internally. I just implied there was a me and him, an us, to be taken into consideration, when in fact, there was nothing concrete for me to make that assumption. It just slipped on out.

He thinks nothing is extraordinary about my words though. "You already know what, Katniss," he murmurs darkly. "Everyone expected you to marry Gale. Kids at school, my family, everyone at the Hob, your mother, probably most of the district. I think even Gale expected you to marry him."

"So?" I say breathlessly, peering up at him, moving my head off his shoulder to rest my chin on his chest. "I didn't marry Gale and I won't ever marry Gale."

"I know." But his words are still downcast.

"So what does it matter if anyone thought differently a few years ago?"

"I guess..." He hesitates and the pause drives me nuts. "I guess, it's the fact that you two were so close and you were... able to just let him go like nothing." I cringe away from him abruptly, like he burned me, but he's already refuting my thoughts before I can speak them. "I know he potentially had a hand in your sister's death but... I just feel like... like..."

I know how hard he's struggling today of all days, and so I do my very best attempt to still resemble patience, but I really want to snap at him to just spit it out. "Like?"

"Like if you were able to cut the connection to Gale, what's keeping you from doing the same thing with me?"

This is where his mind travels on days such as today. This is where his mind runs when it gets dark.

Because he sees himself as a monster some days and he can't comprehend how I could offer him a forgiveness I can never offer Gale.

"Peeta, it's different," I whisper, because it is. That's the truth and it's a complete explanation.

But I know it won't satisfy him. Not when he can so easily paint a picture in someone's head with words, not when he is so good at convincing anyone of anything he so wishes. Not when he could explain a million which ways that he is no more worthy of my affections and absolution than Gale.

The best I can do is offer him the same words I did on the beach, in what feels like a lifetime ago. "I need you," I whisper, my gaze pouring upwards into his, my chin still resting against his heart.

He still refutes my words though. "You needed Gale once too."

"It's not the same."

"How? How can you stop needing him but claim you won't one day stop needing me?" He's pleading desperately to understand. Begging me to make him understand.

But it's so hard. It's so difficult to explain to him something I don't even fully grasp myself.

A million thoughts race through my mind now, none of them clear. A million vague ideas of what I could say that would hopefully bring Peeta some reassurance that no matter who else I've severed the tie to, he's a permanent fixture. A million words try to bubble up on my lips, though none of them make a lick of sense.

In the end, only one sentiment feels accurate. "Peeta, you inspire me to be a better person. You've shown me a way of thinking and living and healing that I wouldn't have seen on my own... and without you and everything you've done, it's hard to recognize myself. Without you, it's hard to remember who I am."

/////

Twenty-Three Days Later.

"You sure that Kanon can handle the bakery on his own?" I ask as we begin to trudge through the trees.

"It's only for a few hours," he says easily, before shooting me a suggestive wink. "Unless you're going to kidnap me out here."

I look away and turn my head to face the sky, trying to prevent my blush from showing. It's a useless effort, as Peeta is only a foot away from me and can see the pink tint my cheeks take on, that cannot be accounted to the chilly wind alone.

He chuckles but doesn't tease me again. Instead he takes my hand in his and pulls me closer, so the foot between our bodies decimates entirely.

Peeta had been in a particularly good mood this morning when we woke up and I had hunted plenty in the days prior, to the point where it was unnecessary to take my bow out today. But I still craved my time in the woods. I still craved the security blanket the trees and the dirt and the clouds all provided me. The connection my father and I shared when we stepped into a forest.

But when I told Peeta as we ate breakfast, that I still wanted to go out to the woods today, his face fell with obvious disappointed and it was all I could think of to invite him along.

I knew I would be sacrificing the bow and arrow, and any additional game, considering Peeta's unintentionally loud gait scared animals and people alike from a great distance, but it was still worth it somehow. I'd still rather spend the morning with Peeta and lose out on potential deer and rabbits and birds, than to witness that look of hurt in his eyes.

I suppose my priorities have shifted. With time and experience and trauma, I suppose things for me have changed.

Who would have thought years ago that I'd invite Peeta Mellark on a walk in the woods, and forfeit a potential meal?

I race ahead of him a little now, as we're in my element for once this morning. He's been continuing to push me to bake with him, to try making different and incredibly complicated treats every so often, but I still think he's wasting his own resources for the bakery. I still he's better off keeping me in a supervisory role—which consists of me sitting on the counter and admiring his handiwork—versus an actual contributor to his creations.

His hand tugs on mine, trying to keep up with my legs and maintain the connection between us. "So, Katniss," he begins lightly.

"So, Peeta," I imitate as he yanks me back playfully, wrapping his arm tightly around my waist.

"What's your favorite color?"

I look up at him, confused. "Haven't we had this conversation before?"

He's in good spirits today so I know he hasn't had any flashbacks nor has he lost any semblance of himself. That hasn't happened once since he's returned home to Twelve since the war. He's had bad days and he's had harrowing days, but he's never thought I was a mutt. He's never forgotten who he was.

But he just rolls his eyes at me now, keeping one arm around me and the other holding my hand. "Yes, but I know favorite colors are sometimes subject to change," he retorts.

I snicker quietly. "You must not know me very well if you think I spend a lot of time rethinking my favorite color." I begin to twist myself away from him, but maintaining my grasp on his palm. He laughs and uses his now free arm to twirl me.

"Okay," he amends after a beat, his tone still cheerful. "If you had to pick a second favorite color, what may it be?"

"May it be?"

"I think you're just avoiding the question."

I stop talking and moving altogether now, causing both me and him to pause mid-step. For the first time, I give his question actual consideration.

I don't really have a strong preference for many colors. Prim had the eye for beauty and the appreciation for luxurious items, not me.

The luxuries of life eluded my interest from a young age, partially because I knew they'd never be within my reach. Or so, I always believed.

For some reason, when trying to conjure up an answer for him, the only thing that enters my mind is a yellow dandelion. More specifically, the yellow dandelion I saw years ago, the day after Peeta threw me the bread. The day I wanted to thank him but didn't have the courage to even try. The dandelion that reminded me of my father's plant book. The dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

The dandelion I'll probably always associate with Peeta Mellark.

I open my mouth to say yellow, the bright, simple flower still fresh in my brain, when I turn my face up at him to speak. And when I do, I'm bombarded by our proximity, bombarded by how close I am to him or he is to me. Bombarded by the bright hue of his watercolor eyes.

And instead of yellow, my lips instead murmur, "Blue," without hesitation, effectively betraying me.

And because he spends every day with me, and just plainly because he knows me, he recognizes immediately why I chose that specific color and smirks. Like he understands the meaning to what I said before I do. Like a cocky child.

He bites his lip to try and suppress a grin and I narrow my eyes, all my irritation at myself transferring onto him. "Shut up," is all I say before dropping his hand and spinning on my heels to walk ahead of him.

He catches me though, undeterred, and grabs me by the hips. With an extreme comfortability, I note.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs in my ear, his mouth closer than I expect and a shiver involuntarily rolls down my back.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask pointedly, refusing to meet his gaze until my cheeks are no longer red.

"Gray," he automatically whispers, his lips still hovering above the shell of my ear. "Gray, exactly like your eyes."

I don't respond to him after that, but I feel my embarrassment melt slowly away as his compliment settles in. His hand comes up and squeezes my waist again, before dropping away and I noticeably miss the contact as soon as it's gone.

I clear my throat, trying to segue to a different topic. "Peeta?"

"Yes?" He says instantly. Probably just happy I'm initiating a conversation now.

"Remember how in the cave you said you 'noticed just about every girl' even though none of them stuck?"

His brows push together and he gives me a sardonic expression. "Yes, I do remember that. Why?"

I shrug, second-guessing the inquiry now. But he doesn't seem too uncomfortable with the question, so I murmur, "Who else caught your eye besides me?"

As it was transparent where this conversation was headed, he is unfazed by my words. "Let me think," he begins, his tone actually serious, if not a little sardonic.

My face blanches. In a way that catches even me off-guard. "Was there a lot of girls you liked?"

He chuckles, before reaching out and lacing our hands together again. I squeeze his fingers instinctively. "Were you really as indifferent to everyone as you think?"

"Yes," I maintain, although the truth is, for a long time I've wondered the same thing. If I was truly uninterested in everything romantic around me as I convinced myself I was, or if the fear of getting hurt, of feeling weak and helpless and out of control is what steered me away.

After all, I paid far more attention to Peeta, in the intervening years between the bread and the games, than I originally thought.

But he lets that drop between us and instead answers my question. "Bryony Clade was one," he admits sheepishly, already expecting my shock, though we've never spoken about that girl once before.

"The girl who lived with the weird grandfather people claimed couldn't speak?"

"That's the one."

"Did you ever hear him speak?"

He bumps my hip with his then. "Katniss, I said I had a crush on her. I didn't say I took her to the Sweetheart's Dance and came to Harvest Dinner. And," he notes rather coyly. "I thought the Seam was above gossip."

"We are," I automatically insist.

"Doesn't sound like it right about now."

"So I heard one tiny rumor."

He laughs again before moving on. "Then I liked Charlotte Welder after that."

I keep my face impassive at that one, to prove my point that people from the Seam don't give into gossip. However, as I imagine her in my mind, I'm not shocked. Charlotte was one of the prettiest merchant girls, with dark blonde hair, long legs and an upturned nose. And a massive chest.

She didn't live through the bombing after the Quell and so, I feel even more vile about the annoyance that bubbles inside me. I can't even really place why either. When Gale and I spoke during the war of his past romantic relationships, I was nothing but intrigued and perhaps a little fascinated that his time at the slag heap had managed to elude me entirely.

I don't know why this feels worse for some reason. Why I abruptly feel sour and upset.

"Who else?" I ask as evenly as I can. Peeta's hand drops mine and moves to the back of my neck.

Off my questioning look, he murmurs as his fingers rub beneath my braid. "You always tense up your shoulders. It can't be good for your neck and back."

I feel a little pleased at the sweet, caring gesture. Still, I want to hear the end of this so I inquire again, "Who else did you like?"

He shrugs. "Caroline Jerins? Did you know her? She was pretty quiet."

"You seem to like those girls," I say before I can stop myself.

His hand moves away from massaging my neck as he laughs, getting my underlying meaning. "With Delly in my life, I needed someone who didn't fill every silence."

I chuckle along with him. "Is that all?" I press, maybe hoping a little too hard that was it.

But he hesitates slightly and I wait for the next name. I'm starting to feel considerably less special the longer that he speaks.

Finally he just murmurs the name. "Madge Undersee..."

"You liked Madge?" I exclaim, scaring three birds out of the tree above us. And I accuse Peeta of being too loud.

But I can't help it. I'm taken so off-guard by the notion of Peeta and Madge.

Madge, the mayor's daughter. Objectively the prettiest girl in the district. Also one of the kindest and quietest people in Twelve. And on top of all that, my friend. I cringe internally at the idea of Peeta and her romantically involved.

A thought occurs to me then. He called me pure in an elevator once. It is too easy to imagine—especially because I remember how he was always surrounded by large scatterings of friends at school, how he was so well liked, how almost everyone cheered for him during his wrestling matches—that he's far more romantically experienced than I ever gave him credit for. "Did you kiss any of these girls?"

"Katniss," Peeta deadpans but his eyes gain a nervous glint that he tries to push away. "I kissed all these girls."

I sigh dramatically, feeling my heart sink a little. I should have known I wasn't his first kiss but still. The revelation sort of stung in a way I didn't expect when I originally brought this up.

He brings me to a sudden stop. "Hey, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about," I say but the words come out in a begrudged mumble.

He snorts unironically at that. "Katniss, I can tell you're mad at me."

"I'm not."

"Hurt?" There's a hint of a smile on his lips.

I shove away from him for the second time in the span of only a couple minutes. "No," I insist petulantly.

He follows right behind me, once again undeterred. "Hey," he beckons, still completely calm as he grabs my arm and spins me around. "You know you mean more to me than any of those girls. My feelings for you never faded, not even in the eleven years it took for me to even speak to you."

He laughs at his own joke, which results in me thawing slightly. "Yeah, I know."

"You know what else?" He adds, his eyes softening more and more as he speaks.

"What?" I am truly perplexed by whatever he's planning to say.

"I know you aren't big on compliments, but you really are the prettiest girl I've ever seen."

He says it so sincerely, so earnestly, that my eyes widen and I instantly smile with embarrassment. "Okay, let's continue our walk," I clumsily segue, turning to move forward.

He laugh at me again. "I just wanted you to know that," he continues, as he easily catches up with me.

"The trees are always so nice to look at this time of year."

"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," he says, though the sentiment is contrasted with his continuous laughter. "I was just thinking it this morning and wanted you to know."

That gives me pause. I continue to move forward but my brows wrinkle in confusion. "This morning, you were thinking I was pretty?" I rolled out of bed, ate breakfast, got dressed and came to the woods with him. I'm still wearing the braid from last night and my sleep shirt under my father's leather jacket.

"Yes," he restates honestly. "I did."

"When?"

He has an exact answer for this, ready and loaded. "When I woke up and you were still asleep. And I laid in bed and watched the way your face looked when the sun hit it, and I just couldn't get it out of my head how beautiful you really are."

I feel a weird skip in my chest and it takes a moment before I realize that was my heart.

I don't know what to say. My mouth twists into a shy smile and I have the very familiar urge to hide my face away. Only now it's showing up when we're alone, just the two of us. So many times I attributed the feeling to the prying cameras, filming our every move for a false love story.

Peeta doesn't say any more but I can tell, even from just my peripheral vision, that he's rather pleased right now by my reaction.

And I'm not like him. I don't do well with words or sentiments or stories. But the physical is easier for me than the verbal, and I find myself catching him off-guard by abruptly turning and throwing my arms around his neck.

Even without warning, he catches me all the same, swaying me gently as he keeps walking through the trees filled with orange and green colored leaves. "Hi, there," is all he says but there's a lilt to his voice that tells me he's happy.

I lean up, before I can overthink it, and plant a kiss on his cheek. Not like the one I did for spite so long ago in our first tribute parade, but one of gratitude, of awe, of affection.

His smile widens so much now that I think it could to fall off his face. And instead of saying anything himself, he leans back from our embrace and brings both his hands up to frame my face, before leaning down to kiss the tip of my nose then both my eyes.

"Thank you," he whispers, for reasons I don't grasp but simultaneously let drop, the moment too sweet for analytics.

Instead I stand on my tiptoes and press my forehead to his, for once in my life deciding to bask in the moment before me.

Peeta gently rubs his nose to mine as the leaves from the trees blow around us in the wind.

/////

I still have dreams of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips.

/////

Ten days later.

Peeta's hands wrapped around my throat like a vise.

Prim's unsuspecting body exploding everywhere.

Gale building the bombs that would steal my sister from this earth.

My father dying beneath the ground I'm standing upon.

Peeta being beaten and bruised and stabbed with syringes until he bleeds out and dies.

My mother staring at the wall, unmoving, unfazed, unreachable. As good as dead.

Lately these images—the ones that occur most often inside my nightmares—have remained absent. My dreams have been less sinister for weeks now, only occasionally holding a certain daunting edge. And I can typically shake that feeling off in my waking hours, never alerting Peeta or Haymitch or anyone else that spends a decent chunk of time with me.

But I knew, deep down, that those dreams weren't gone. That they couldn't be gone. They were just hidden away, lurking in the shadows of my sanity, waiting to bombard me all at once.

The surprise I feel, as I bolt up in bed screaming, having just witnessed an exaggerated compilation of my worst memories, is absolutely pitiful. To say the least.

As is the wheezing noise filling the air. For a split second I think it's Buttercup, hacking up an orange furball. But, almost detached, I realize swiftly that sound is one that proceeds a hysterical meltdown.

Once again, I'm not wrong.

"Katniss?" Peeta whispers into the darkness, as my mouth falls open and lets out a strangled cry. "Did you have a nightmare?" He asks, though he already knows the answer.

I curl my body forward, holding up my hand to cover my mouth, willing myself to shut up. Willing myself to not dissolve into a wailing mess, over dreams that I've already cried enough tears for an entire lifetime over.

Still, he knows me and he knows my trauma. He shares in my trauma.

He was my partner in the games and now is forever my partner in agony.

The word partner creeps up with a whole different meaning in my mind now and I scrub my wet eyes desperately, confused to why my brain even went there at two in the morning.

Peeta pushes the blankets away from him, sitting up in bed beside me. His hand wordlessly travels to my head, massaging the back of my scalp, a technique that calms me some nights.

Not tonight though.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He whispers as my cacophonous cries travel through the lightless room, refusing to simmer down. Refusing to relinquish their hold on my vocal cords.

I shake my head to his inquiry and try to murmur, "I'm okay, go back to sleep," but it's a poor attempt at best.

"Yeah, not likely," is all he says in response and I feel his hand slowly travel down my spine, rubbing my back soothingly.

I haven't had a nightmare so severe in months that it almost sets me back to the start. When I first arrived home to Twelve and when I first began to sleep again like a normal person, no longer spending my entire days staring at the flames in the hearth like they're the ones who burned my body nearly to a crisp and murdered my little sister, the nightmares took grip on me like a clenched fist. It was so terrible at first, I would stay up at night until my body couldn't sustain me a moment longer.

But it's not the same, I try to convince myself internally. It's not the same as it was then. I've progressed. The dreams have become less frequent. My dark days don't occur often anymore. My actions having meaning to them again.

The changes in my relationship with Peeta has meaning to it.

I push that thought away now too, unable to dissect it in my current state.

My tears still won't relent though and I feel my fingers tracing something hard and bumpy, and it takes longer than it should for me to recognize I'm tracing a burn scar like it's a letter in brail.

Peeta seems to recognize what I'm doing. He sees my finger trace the same raised mark over and over again, my chest still heaving like a manic, and pieces together the nightmares had some form of fire inside them.

His hand gently lifts the back of my shirt, exposing more burns and ruined flesh. "It's okay, Katniss," he tries again but I can barely hear him over my own sobs.

His lips catch me off-guard though. His mouth unexpectedly makes contact with my bare skin, kissing the spots on my back where the burns destroyed the body tissue that once appeared olive.

"It's okay," he repeats, his mouth pressing large pecks all over, his strong arms wrapping around my torso now. "I'm right here. It's over now. It's over."

I nod, trying to contain my upset, trying to absorb his words. It's a difficult task to accomplish though, as little makes sense to my brain in moments like these.

His kisses on my scars though tranquilize me ever-so-slightly and I feel my body involuntarily relax as he continues to kiss his way upwards, moving my hair away to press his lips to the back of my neck.

Peeta takes the opportunity to wrap me up in his hold and lean us against the pillows again. He pulls me against his chest, my head resting against his shoulder as the liquid continues to stream from my eyes.

"Drink this," he murmurs and I still can't see through the pitch black, but I already know he's handing me the cup of water that we share at night.

His lips caress my forehead, my temple, my hairline, as I guzzle the entire thing down and toss it carelessly to the side.

"Just relax, sweetheart," he mumbles against my cheek, tucking my hair that's fallen from the braid behind my ear. "You're safe here with me."

"I saw you die. I saw Prim die. And then you again and my dad and-and so much more-" I gasp out suddenly, my voice not even sounding like my own.

Peeta's arms tighten around me, his lips touching the shell of my ear as he whispers sadly, "I'd do anything to take this away from you."

"It's never going away," slides out in a rasp involuntarily.

It's not like it's a shock to him though. It's our reality that we will always live like this. Full of nightmares and horrors and unanswered questions. "I know," he agrees solemnly as he pulls back a little to look at me, my eyes now clearer than before.

We share a silent glance for one long moment, communicating things I don't even know how to speak. We stare at the other, blue and gray melting in a gaze, before he leans in and slowly, tenderly, kisses my lips.

It's a quick kiss, not like some of the others we've exchanged. Definitely not like the ones on the beach. But it makes me feel good all the same. Not down deep into my core, but in my heart. The kiss makes me feel safe in a way I know I'll never be able to ask for.

I do intend to ask for another kiss though, the contact calming me down more than even his callused hands rubbing back does. But when I tip my head to make the request, Peeta does it again anyway without hesitation. His lips touch mine for a brief moment and then his hand cups my cheek, his eyes pouring deeply into mine. And this time, it's me who leans in unexpectedly, who presses my lips to his in a quick, firm peck, trying to ground myself somehow. Realizing in that moment that he's my anchor. My anchor to my sanity, to my clarity, to my grip on reality.

"Hey," he murmurs as I pull back slowly, peering down at me. His eyes are filled with both awe and curiosity. And something else too, but I can't place what in the moment.

It's clear I surprised him but I can see he's elated, albeit exhausted, by my actions.

"Hi," I whisper, my face finally dry again, my chest beginning to lose the horrible hollow feeling inside.

This time we both lean in deliberately, our mouths meet one more time. When his lips softly press to mine I feel a spark suddenly elicit between us, and it takes all I have to recognize that I'm in no place for such feelings right now.

He seems to know this already too, as he pulls back so I don't have to and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Let's try to get some more sleep," he suggests, and I nod, before moving to mold my body entirely to his, fusing my leg around his waist at once. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Peeta," I mumble as my eyes fall shut. As my brain resets itself and the only images in my head are now peaceful. As, in spite of the horrific nightmare only minutes ago, I feel safe as I fall once again unconscious.

/////

Sixteen Days Later.

I pull jacket tighter around my shivering frame as the wind blows harshly against the afternoon chill. I don't know why the sun can't make up it's mind anymore, coming and going unexpectedly day to day. The thought of the hot beam in the sky leaves me abruptly infuriated, perhaps irrationally.

Okay, my irritation is doubtlessly irrational.

In truth, I've been on edge for the last six days straight. More than on edge, Haymitch is not been shy to let me know.

Peeta was called to the Capitol again, this time on a venture I could not go on. For his yearly re-evaluation by Dr. Aurelius.

The man promised to treat us both by phone when the war ended, when we were each cleared individually. But Peeta's circumstances were different. He had been brainwashed and filled with a deadly substance. He had been hijacked—he was likely always going to be known as the only person to ever recover from such a thing—and that was treated with more caution than a girl who merely snapped, having only been able to take on so much.

When Peeta found out that he had to go to the Capitol, I spent nearly an hour staring at the trees in woods, my bow trembling uselessly inside my hands.

The thought of spending days without seeing him once, something we did out of our own choice only a few months ago, felt like worse torture than solitary confinement had. The idea of sleeping alone every night, with no one to ground me, to talk me down from the ledge, to breathe in the scent of, to perhaps offer a little affection, almost took my breath away. He was a staple in my every day life.

Okay, even I know that's a gross understatement, no matter how hesitant I am to admit that aloud. Peeta himself has become my every day life. His words on the beach that fateful last night on the Quell come rushing back to me now, as they have continuously all week.

"You're my whole life."

Of course, there's a good chance he was exaggerating for effect, since he proclaimed it at a moment he was willing me to live over him. But still, there is an element to truth in that statement, I've found for myself, rather pathetically.

We wake up together. We eat together. We go our separate ways for our various activities in the day but I regularly visit the bakery in the afternoons, he typically is in the kitchen when I arrive back home in the evenings from the Hob. We have dinner together, we talk, we laugh, we annoy Haymitch. We fall asleep together.

It dawns on me how sickening our proximity has become really. How gut-wrenching the thought of it should be to me. How much anxiety about it I should feel.

Of course that's always been my problem though. The idea of sharing a life with someone, of coming to depend on just about any person, has always been one of my biggest fears.

The image of my mother, empty and void and deaf to her children's pleads, fills my head before I can stop it. Because that's always going to be the complete encapsulation of my anxiety.

The idea of loving someone only to lose them. Only to lose yourself in the aftermath.

My heart slams in my chest and I glance around the train station to see if anyone else is there. To see if there is anyone to witness how distressed I must look.

Peeta is supposed to come home today and I decided to wait for him at the station, to see him as soon as he exits the car. I'm not obligated to, we never discussed it and he's not expecting me, but I know that until I see his face I won't be able to focus on anything else.

He would have been back two days ago but he stopped in Four to see Annie and Finn, and then in Seven to see Johanna.

I shouldn't begrudge him for wishing to see our friends, as he isn't restricted to a single district like I am, and majority of the country has been traveling all over Panem since the war, but I was still disappointed when he called to let me know he wouldn't be back for a couple more days.

Actually, I was slightly disheartened by the upbeat nature to his tone over the phone.

I know it's stupid to be hurt, but it stings that I'm clearly the only one who's missing our contact. Who's missing the hands that freely touch me now, the arms that I can lose myself in, the voice that is so confident, so reassuring or funny or annoying, that can convince anyone of anything. The smirk and the boyish smile and the understanding grimace. The eyes the color of the sky and the baked goods he never fails to create and the smell of plain tea and the abrasive cold breeze floating in through the window on chilly mornings. The embarrassing laugh and the too boisterous comments and the loudest footsteps I've ever heard.

I shouldn't care that he's clearly just fine without me.

But, inexplicably, I do.

In any case, I still walked down to the train station today, unable to focus on hunting while anticipating his arrival.

I don't know what I'll tell him about my week, as it was painfully boring. I've already pre-planned the questions I'll ask him about Four and Seven and, if he seems in high enough spirits, the Capitol.

I probably won't mention the nightmare I had the first night he was gone, where I was stumbling alone in the street, feeling cold and petrified and lost. I also probably won't mention the way I refused to pass the bakery, despite my usual close proximity to the business nowadays. It was just too much to witness the darkened windows and the perpetual closed sign hanging on the door and be reminded of his absence.

I probably won't mention missing him enough that I actually sought out Delly Cartwright, and spent two nights this last week having dinner with her, asking her questions about her and Peeta's childhood together. And I definitely won't mention getting drunk with Haymitch's white liquor, only to later come to and witness the grouchy old man tucking me in while simultaneously cursing my name for drinking his good stuff.

But I still made it though. Albeit bored and sour most days but standing on the platform now, it all doesn't seem so terrible. If I know for a fact that Peeta will return to Twelve, that he will return to me, then the past week isn't so bad in comparison to everything else that's happened.

I silent coach myself once again, as I pull my jacket tighter around me to protect from the cold, to not feel even an ounce of agitation that Peeta wasn't miserable and desperate to hurry home.

I want him to be happy. Happy and healed and himself again.

A part of me just craves the reassurance that he missed me too.

My thoughts are interrupted by the welcome sound of a train storming closer and closer across the tracks.

I realize idly that I've never been on this side of the scenario. So many times I returned home by train after we won our first games, so many times my family greeted me here in this very place. But never did I wait for another person to come charging in from the distance, and the revelation makes me uncomfortable as the train comes to a rickety halt.

Not many people travel to Twelve. Not officials on business, not military workers—thankfully—and seldomly new residents or visitors. Therefore it isn't surprising in the least that when the doors open, Peeta is the first one to step off.

A few people filter out behind him as he comes to stand on the platform, but I don't even glance at them. The second he turns his head and locks eyes with me, my misaligned feelings melt away, and it suddenly overwhelms me, how vain and mindless my assumptions had been.

I can see in his eyes he was looking for me. I can see in the glint swirling around his blue irises that he hoped against hope I'd be here, waiting for him. And I can see from his gaze that he definitively missed me while gone.

My legs instinctively break into a sprint, and I run right into his outstretched arms.

He captures me in a hug so tight, it entirely lifts me off my feet. I give into the act, bringing my legs up to wrap around his waist.

"Peeta," I breathe, my voice strained and perhaps slightly exhilarated as I squeeze my arms around his neck. I bury my face there and inhale the scent I didn't realize how much I missed until this moment.

Vanilla and cinnamon and something entirely his own.

He holds me so close, my lungs struggle to inhale. "I missed you," he says as way of greeting. "So much."

I nod rapidly, agreeing more than he can even realize, as the strangest feeling of relief swims around my core. Relief that I'm not crazy and that I'm not alone in the longing I so desperately felt. Relief that he missed me too while apart.

He doesn't let me down, doesn't even loosen his hold, as he moves his head back and begins to kiss my jaw and then my neck. His lips say what words can't. That he doesn't like being separated any more than I do. That he was as desperate to get back to me as I was for him to come home. That he loves our life together now, just like I do. That he doesn't wish to leave again to explore the other districts anytime soon.

I catch him off-guard though, as his lips move to my chin. I abruptly turn my face down and capture his mouth in a kiss that creates a stirring in my chest once again. In a kiss that feels so incredibly good, it simultaneously frightens and thrills me.

Surprisingly, it's him that pulls back first, a lazy smile encompassing his face. He buzzes quietly, clearly satisfied by my greeting. "That's what I call a welcome home."

I roll my eyes but can't stop myself from blushing. "Shut up."

He still doesn't let me go from his arms, even as I lean away. "And that's more what I expected upon my arrival," he teases again.

I laugh as he leans in and kisses my cheek now. "Oh," I add suddenly, completely as an afterthought. Feeling slightly embarrassed, I reach into the pocket of my hunting jacket and gracelessly pull out some squished yellow flowers. "Sorry, I found these on the way here. I know it's dumb-"

He takes the dandelions from my grasp before quickly shaking his head, instantly disputing my claims. "No, Katniss, they're perfect. Everything..." he cuts himself off and his features noticeably soften to a glance of adoration. "Everything you do is perfect. Thank you."

I shake my head, silently disputing the compliment, but can't stop myself from returning his grin just the same. "What're you thanking me for?" I chuckle. "Picking some dandelion off the ground?"

"Being here," he amends in a serious tone. "Being here with me. Never giving up on me, no matter how hard it's gotten." His fingers run over the hair I thoughtlessly organized into two messy braids this morning. "Thank you for giving me hope when I needed it most."

I give him an incredulous look. That's what he does for me? There's no way I reciprocate it back.

"I think you got it wrong," I start but he isn't hearing any of it and presses his lips to mine in a quick kiss to shut me up.

It works as I feel a jolt with the contact and forget what I wanted to say.

"I have it exactly right," he insists, and squeezes me tighter to him for emphasis. "Thank you for everything, Katniss."

I roll my eyes but the chagrined smile ruins the effect and I give him a nonchalant shrug. I know he won't let it go if I keep disagreeing and I want to get him home as soon as possible, so I just murmur a quiet, "Okay," and try to move on.

It's his turn to chuckle now. "Okay? So you'll accept it."

I shoot him a coy look before cupping his cheek and sighing softly. "I'll accept it."

Chapter Text

Nine Days Later.

"Katniss?" Kanon calls from the entryway to the bakery's back room.

"Hmm?"

"I'm heading to check on Delly at my store, if that's okay?" He asks quietly, his eyes remaining dutiful and patient. I know it's within my power to order him to the front, his obedience and desire to please largely outweighing the fact that he's multiple years my senior. Outweighing the fact that Peeta left him in charge of the bakery and I'm just a decoration in the back room, contributing nothing of importance to the operation.

But Kanon is still carrying the demeanor of an abused dog, still behaving as if he believes someone will kick him in the face for stepping out of line. He still acts as if he has to answer to me or Peeta—or Thom or Leevy—when in fact, it was him who was doing us a favor.

Peeta didn't sleep well last night. Nothing spectacular happened yesterday to bring it on, nothing out of the ordinary occurred, but when nightfall came and I quickly succumbed to a deep slumber, he remained restless in bed beside me.

His constant tossing and turning didn't bode for either of us. Neither did his loud pacing up and down the halls or the lights he kept flickering on and off, as he exited rooms and entered new ones.

Needless to say, neither one of us got much sleep.

Kanon had volunteered to man the counter of the bakery today, as Peeta was in a wretched mood—lack of sleep being one of his greatest triggers—and I'm exhausted from him disrupting my sleep as well.

Lack of sleep was also one of my greatest triggers.

Which could explain why we're not on speaking terms currently.

"That's fine," I assure Kanon now, nodding as he shuts the door quietly behind him.

I make a halfhearted effort to strain my neck and peak out front without standing from my stool. No one appeared to be out there and I relaxed my head against my hands again, laying my cheek against my forearm exhaustively.

Peeta kept me up on and off throughout the night, slamming doors and pulling covers and opening every window in the upstairs level, creating a chill so strong my teeth chattered.

If he'd been having an episode—at least, in the way we typically classify that term—I would have understood. If it were flashbacks that were haunting every glance behind his lids, I would have been sympathetic.

But, according to him, it was neither. He just couldn't sleep, much like nights for him after our first games, and was frustrated by the very notion.

Even so, I still pushed back my own irritation—no doubt, exacerbated by lack of rest—and asked how he was feeling when I came into the kitchen this morning.

He'd all but bitten my head off in a completely uncharacteristic act. His mood was sour and icy and caustic, in a way he rarely ever had been. In a way that eerily reminded me of our time in Thirteen.

He knew who I was though. He didn't believe I was a mutt or creation of the Capitol or demon. I checked for that. Which managed to earn me even more of his ire but I didn't care. He'd earned just as much of mine.

It was probably the one thing we agreed on this morning, that he had no business coming into the bakery. We both knew that on days like today, nothing, not even his livelihood, was worth jeopardizing his recovery.

The consequences of pushing it too hard, of a massive setback, of the faint possibility of him relapsing to his mentality back in Thirteen, still remain all too fresh, like an unhealed wound still open and raw and bleeding in both our psyches.

Even angry and cross with him, I still think of his best interests. I still want to protect him from ever going back to that decimated shell he once was reduced to. I still want to protect the boy with the bread.

Peeta had simply mumbled a short statement about calling Kanon to take over the counter for today. It wasn't explicitly mentioned that I'd hang out in the back room for the duration of the afternoon. However, when I found myself too tired and not anywhere near alert enough to go hunting, and the only other options were spending the day with an edgy, disturbed Peeta or a hungover, irritated Haymitch, I chose to head into town without much consideration.

I didn't even tell Peeta where I was going. It's not as if I owe him an explanation. We aren't even officially together and he doesn't have a say in what I do. And with his mindset today, it's doubtful at best that he's going to waste any time at all worrying about me.

Plus, the ovens really add an extra appeal, today of all days especially. It's particularly cold outside and Peeta's desire for every window in our house to remain open had even further chilled me.

The bakery ovens however, come summer or winter, were blazing with warmth and I spent the better part of the morning resting my cheek against the warm surface while it baked the daily grains, without a single regret.

My favorite item however, I found today, was the newest contraption added to the bakery. Effie herself had sent it weeks ago, straight from the Capitol. It was a toaster oven, smaller in size from the classic ovens, but still managing to take up the whole counter it sat upon. You place a piece of bread upon it and turn the knob, allowing it to move the slice over the small conveyor and flip to the bottom, popping out on the attached metal tray.

Only kink in the object is the slices occasionally get stuck in the back when attempting to move from top to bottom.

That doesn't matter much though, as I've scarcely moved from my seat on the stool today, my sleepy eyes watching the bread rapidly toast in an act I surprisingly find so tranquil.

I wonder if Peeta does this, lays his head down and watches the bread ride through the Capitol toaster, when he needs to relax. Or if I perhaps just have an uncanny fascination with the object. If I perhaps am just searching for a distraction that'll keep me from going home, from having to face a sullen and surly Peeta, that no matter how much my head reasons it away, I can't stop from associating with the person who hated me so deeply he once tried to killed me.

My lids are growing heavier though, by the second now. The quiet of the empty bakery, the gentle hum of the cooking bread, the warmth radiating from around the room, the soft, cozy feeling, all lull me near slumber. I fight it though, with every ounce of willpower I possess. The building can't be left unlocked with no one awake to attend to it, even in a district as safe and small and trustworthy as Twelve.

I don't have the energy to walk the thirty feet to the front doors and change the open sign to read closed, and I definitely don't feel up for the walk back home yet, so instead I do the only other thing I can think of and grab a leftover croissant no one bought yesterday and slip it into the toaster oven beside me, hoping the toasted item will keep me vigilant.

The act only rouses me for a moment and by the time I sit back on the stool, my eyes burn with fatigue.

Desperately, I scrub my hands back and forth across my lids, trying to focus in on the croissant sliding over the conveyor, but it's futile in the end. My eyes slide shut and my head slumps gracelessly against the countertop.

When I awake again, it's to the image of fire and smoke.

/

I can't see anything. That's all I can think, as I instinctively stumble upwards, out of my seat, towards the floor of the bakery. I crawl blindly across the typically cool wood, squinting through bleary lids, unable to decipher anything about my surroundings. Unable to see the hand in front of my face.

It takes me longer than I willingly would admit to remember I fell asleep in the back room. It takes me much longer than I wish to admit to realize the room is on fire and the reason I can't see a thing is because my vision is overpowered by the thick grey smoke.

I stumble to my feet, pushing out my hands in front of me, hoping to feel my way towards the door.

No such luck. Instead I end up stumbling in the opposite direction—I can't even tell which way I'm walking—and find, surprised for some reason, that the fire has spread to the main part of the store, catching the counter on fire too.

"Peeta?" I call out, my lip trembling involuntarily from fear. And for some insane, irrational reason, I'm grateful for a split second that no one can see me. That no one can see me cry out because I'm scared. Because I'm so scared. "Peeta!" I yell, with much more volume this time. Still, no one responds and anxiety boils in my blood as I begin to fret that no one knows I'm in here.

My yelling however, only served in making everything that much worse, only served in inhaled smoke by mistake, and my throat suddenly feels like I've eaten gravel and sand.

I desperately propel my feet forward, into the thick of the unknown. But reaching out my hand, hoping to be able to feel my way towards the exit, turns out to be a mistake as well, as the orange flames I can barely make out through my watering eyes, lick my palm greedily.

I let out a scream before clamping my mouth shut, my head swimming with more than just exhaustion now. My eyes spill with liquid as I force them to stay open, as I force my feet to walk through the embers, to make my way towards the exit. To make my way towards an escape.

You've been on fire before, I remind myself sternly. This is nothing to the bomb that killed Prim. To the bomb that burned off half my flesh.

Except it's completely different, as I'm trapped in an enclosed area with the flames and I can't so much as see my own nose through the haze.

My vision spirals then, just as something scorches me. First at the bottom of my foot and then at the side of my thigh, and I tremble and hold back a scream so severe, I bite through my bottom lip.

I begin to doubt I can make it any further, as my chest aches like it's been ripped open and just about every sense of mine—down to the simple act of even breathing—shuts down.

"Peeta?" I whimper out weakly, as a last resort. I don't know what he can do for me now, seeing as neither he nor anyone else can hear my smoke choked voice from inside the building. But surely he of all people has to know I'm missing. Surely he has to be trying to help me.

It doesn't matter though, how much I try to yell. How much I wish to call for help. My voice is too quiet and too hoarse for anyone to hear, let alone even decipher. I know deep down, as my head spins again and my vision clouds further, all my efforts are doomed at this point.

I feel myself involuntarily slump towards the wall, praying it isn't consumed in flames yet, praying that I won't die here inside this bakery, like every other member of Peeta's family.

My prayers, for once it seems, are answered. The door I was aiming for flings itself open, revealing a male with a thick, dark coat and the clear open sky behind him.

I don't know the man. He's not anyone I recognize at first bleary glance. But he's holding a large, wide hose in his hand, and his aim is impeccable as he shoots a powerful stream of water across the room, attempting to kill the flames before they can grow any more. For a moment my heart skips a beat, as a gust of wind from outside floats in and gives the flames new life to rise again rapidly.

But the hose is evidently stronger and the water pushes the fire down again, giving me just enough hope of survival—something I once upon a time, never would have let myself feel—for my every instinct to suddenly kick back to life. Prying my lids as wide open through the thick, dark smoke as they'll go, I shove through the wreckage of ashes and destruction, and slip by the man and out into the cool air of the night.

As soon as the clean air hits me, I take in a greedy breath, the desire to cleanse my lungs the only conscious thought on my mind. It doesn't work though. I huff and gasp and choke to no avail, and in the end, I feel my knees slowly hit the concrete as I cough repeatedly. I can't catch my breath, I realize at once, growing exceedingly alarmed now.

I can't catch my breathe and the air isn't helping and I can barely breathe and when did it become night?

And where is Peeta?

My eyes refuse to remain open for longer than a second, creating extreme difficulty as I attempt to search for Peeta in the crowd of faceless bodies I abruptly realize are coming to surround me. They're growing closer and closer, and I desperately sputter as a horrific thought enters my mind. What if Peeta went through the front to find me and got caught up in the fire? it would be just like him. He admitted himself that he followed me to the Capitol Square, that he put the flames attacking me out, that he got himself critically injured to save my life.

What if he tried to do it again? What if he wasn't as lucky this time?

What if, after all this time and all we've been through, I finally got him killed?

Thankfully, I'm put out of my misery before the trepidation can participate in the choking of my lungs any further. Two arms suddenly grasp me, suddenly yank me upwards, suddenly propel me into their warm, solid embrace.

And I'd recognize these arms anywhere. These arms that held me countless times, that withheld me from going insane, that brought me comfort when I didn't even think it was a possibility. These arms that conjured up feelings I didn't even know I was capable of.

"Peeta," I choke out in a tiny mumble as I feel him hoist me higher, take on the brunt of my entire weight, squeezing my body to his. Almost as an afterthought, I wrap my legs around his waist, first out of reflex and then out of relief. Because he's here and he didn't get caught in the fire this time. I didn't almost lose him this time.

"Katniss," he breathes, and I hear terror and panic still evident in his tone. And I feel overcome with guilt at once. I didn't want to scare him, no matter how much we were fighting this morning.

I never want him to feel afraid again.

There's a small part of me though, in the back of my mind, that appreciates the novelty of having someone who's afraid to lose you. I don't acknowledge it aloud, I barely even graze the thought myself, but it's a small silver lining in the background of my brain.

I attempt to reassure Peeta that I'm fine, but to no avail. My body is too depleted and my eyes remain heavy and painful and when I open my mouth to speak, I begin to cough again. Repeatedly.

He rubs my back gently, before, in a surprising, feverish motion, kissing me all over. He wildly presses his lips to my neck, to my shoulder, to my cheek and my jaw and anywhere else he can reach.

"Are you hurt?" He asks urgently, his arms only tightening more and more around me by the second.

I think of my head that's still swimming incoherently, and my foot and leg that feel like something tore layers of skin away with a knife, and my throat that tastes like hot lava and charred wood, and I don't even know how to answer.

And then I make matters that much worse by bursting into tears.

"Katniss," Peeta whispers, pulling back slightly to look me over.

"I'm sorry," I cry, my chest heaving suddenly. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for the-"

My mouth is moving quicker than my brain and I realize, almost as the words come tumbling out, that I'm apologizing for the fire in itself.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was tired and it just happened and-"

"It's okay," Peeta instantly is assuring, and I feel his lips touching my cheek again, still keeping a hold on me tightly. "Katniss, it wasn't your fault."

But it was my fault, in fact. The images come pouring back to me, like the films the Capitol would force the whole country to watch, playing over and over again in my head.

The croissant. The toaster oven. Me, unable to keep my eyes open for even a second longer.

I started the fire. I burned down the bakery.

"Peeta," I gasp again suddenly. "I'm so sorry."

He doesn't even respond verbally this time. No, instead his lips press against mine in a furious motion, in an abrupt gesture. I don't even register the fluttering in my stomach until he pulls back and I'm left with a tingling lingering on my lips, in the midst of still trying to catch my breath.

"Katniss, I don't care about the bakery," Peeta emphasizes now, his voice becoming more and more stern. "All I care about is that you're alright."

My eyes continue pour out with tears, both from the stress of it all and from the smoke irritation, but my body sags deeper into his, my arms squeezing tightly as I burrow my face in Peeta's neck.

And as if I didn't hear it before, he repeats the same sentiment again, this time in a warmer tone, his lips pressed directly to my ear.

"All I care about is you."

//////

Peeta doesn't let me go after that. A multitude of District Twelve residents, both the medically equipped and the just concerned, come to check on me, to make sure I'm still in one piece.

It doesn't take long for anyone with common sense to spot my wheezing and bloodshot eyes, even from a mile away.

Peeta holds me on his lap while three different people—people I honestly paid so little mind to until tonight, that I can scarcely conjure up their names—adjust a clear oxygen mask, a device obviously sent from the Capitol itself, over my mouth and nose.

"She really should go to the Capitol," one of the kind helpers frets.

"Or at least to Four or One. They have a some of the best hospitals out there," another chimes in.

But I shake my head, drained, and Peeta rubs my back soothingly. "She's still technically banned from traveling," he explains.

"Well, Plutarch can fix that right now," Haymitch bellows, his brows still knit together. His expression hasn't changed since he found us in the crowd, since he barked rudely at countless people until a few who were mildly knowledgeable and supplied ran forward to help.

Our old mentor will never own his affection for both me and Peeta, but in moments like this, it's so crystal clear, it almost makes me laugh that he still puts up a front. That he still pretends we're an annoyance, a pain in the back, and not his family.

I shake my head again and pull the oxygen mask away for a moment to speak. "It takes days to get a motion for me to travel approved. There's no use."

I feel Peeta's lips touch my forehead and then my hair, unashamed. No one pays any mind to the display anyway, all too concerned with my irregular breathing and the burns on my leg and palm.

There's a lot more talk, a lot of instruction given and some occasional snaps or quips from Haymitch, but I have little energy to engage. I feel Delly and Kanon and many others come close, but I remain eyes squeezed shut, my head resting against Peeta's chest, too tired to answer questions or calm anyone's fears.

One part of the ongoing conversation peaks my interest though.

"She shouldn't be alone tonight," one of the female helpers says. "Someone should be there to check on her."

It's her male counterpart that responds, with a bit more levity than before. "I doubt that'll be an issue. I'm assuming you'll be there to make sure she's alright," he addresses Peeta, a slight smirk forming now.

Peeta nods after a moment, only mildly bashful. Majority of the district must know that me and Peeta have a specific relationship that both of us have yet to define, but the implication in the man's statement still is unexpected. And I don't know why but I'm suddenly happy my face is essentially covered with the mask.

"Sorry about the bakery," Kanon says, almost inaudibly as the others begin to separate away, to head back to their homes or businesses, or to survey the damage I inflicted unintentionally on the structure.

I shake my head in response, trying in vain to dispute his apology, despite the fact that Kanon is clearly not talking to me.

"It wasn't anyone's fault," Peeta insists, and kisses my forehead then, very firmly, as if to make a point. "I'm just happy everyone's okay."

Kanon touches my arm then and I flinch, not expecting the contact. He doesn't seem to notice though. "I'm sorry I didn't get help sooner," he whispers to me now and my heart grows even heavier, feeling terrible for the guilt the docile man is now going to bear.

He's already rather pathetically tame and downcast, most of the time. I've only ever seen him smile when he's surrounded with those he cares for. My stupid mistake probably set him back massively in overcoming his own demons.

But before I can remove the oxygen mask and set him straight, Peeta's already speaking. "It was an accident," he states inflexibly, his eyes moving between Kanon's and my bloodshot ones. "It was no one's fault."

I don't agree, but Haymitch speaks up then and commands for Peeta to take me home, and I am far too depleted of energy to put up any fight.

Evidently though this is something Peeta feels strongly about, because as he lifts me up into his arms, he whispers again into my ear, "this wasn't your fault."

//////

"She should be fine," the male volunteer says as he stands upright, putting away his stethoscope. I learned a few minutes ago his name is really Harold. For some reason I thought it was Harvey.

The oxygen mask that still resides on my face, covering my mouth and nose and preventing me from speaking intelligibly, may prove to be a handy buffer for my lack of social etiquette.

He speaks specifically to Peeta now. "That mask should have enough of a charge to last until morning. If it runs out early and she does need more, I'll leave an inhaler next to my number to hold her over."

Peeta, who's kneeling by my head, thanks the man for his help, before pressing a kiss full of gratitude to my soot covered forehead.

"Where did you get this thing?" Haymitch inquires, flicking the mask roughly with his thumb and pointer finger, even as its still in use, pumping me with necessary extra oxygen.

"Capitol Hospital. I ordered some on the train delivery last month, in case of an emergency. Real lucky, right?"

Haymitch chuckles darkly as me and Peeta exchange a sardonic look. "Yeah. Real lucky."

Our old mentor walks Harold to the door then, half-hazardously tossing a blanket in my general direction to cover my exposed legs.

Harold had followed us home and given me a more thorough inspection than was possible in the middle of town. Nothing new was discovered, nothing I didn't already know, aside from how difficult it still remained to take a deep breath in without the mask.

He'd also inspected the burns on my leg, hand and foot before slathering on medicine and wrapping them in a tight bandage. Peeta and Haymitch had both looked horrified at the new marks but I merely shrugged it off. I was covered in burn scars already. What's a couple more at this rate?

Peeta's fingers softly course through my hair now, his face leaning close to mine. He'd laid me on the couch upon arriving home hours ago and hadn't moved from my side since.

"I'm sorry about the bakery," I mumble again, guilt still the most prevalent emotion boiling inside my core.

"Shut up," he whispers but his tone is still sweet and I chuckle despite everything. He's heard countless apologies from me now and it's plain to see he's tired of it. "I don't want you to apologize. I want you to rest," he insists and, as if he can't resist, he presses his lips to the bridge of my nose gently.

"I'm resting," I mumble stubbornly, the oxygen device making my words even more unclear.

A moment passes in silence, Peeta's fingers still sifting through my hair, as he contemplates something. "Do you want to take a bath?"

I peak an eye open to look at him, a little confused. "I'm okay," I whisper, trying to show my appreciation for his kind inquiry, hoping he can decipher my words. "I'm too tired right now to take a bath."

"I'll help you," he immediately offers, like him washing my naked body would be nothing out of the ordinary.

I raise an eyebrow at him suggestively in response, unable to stop myself, and as if realizing his own words for the first time, Peeta's cheeks turn a little pink. "You helped me in our first games," he reminds me, a bashful smile playing on his lips now.

He's referring to when I dragged him to the lake and helped him clean up. "It was life or death," I remind him, shaking my head a little. The comparison makes little sense to me. Our two situations don't seem at all similar.

But he doesn't return my smile now. No, now his bashful glint turns downcast and he takes my hand in his, bringing it upwards to his mouth. After a beat, he whispers, almost too quiet to distinguish, "I thought you were going to die."

If my heart sank with Kanon's guilt, it crumbles into pieces with Peeta's admission. "I never meant to scare you," I whisper, my eyes watering again now. I clumsily move my hand to cup his cheek, to stroke it with my thumb. "I'm so sorry, Peeta."

"I know," he replies easily and tries to fake a smile for me. "I just... I just..." He trails off, his eyes growing wet now too. He starts to try and speak again but this time doesn't even get one word out before his voice breaks and he gives up, slowly leaning down to kiss my forehead once more.

His lips linger there, conveying silently whatever he wished to say verbally, before moving on and traveling across my hairline and the crown of my skull. I move my weak arm to cup the back of his head, stroking his curls there gently, with all the strength I can muster up.

It's a rough day when Peeta can't even utter how he feels with words. Peeta, who's talent in this world, who's gift in life is verbal sentiments, never looses his ability to speak, almost ever.

Except when he's faced with the reality of his memories. The reality of the arenas we survived and the imprisonment and torture he withstood. Except when he's confronted with the death of his family or the acts he did when Snow still had a hold on him.

Except when I burn down his bakery by falling asleep with a croissant burning in a Capitol toaster.

I feel my body relax involuntarily as he continues to shower me with kisses anywhere he can reach, his fingers threading themselves back through my hair, massaging my scalp. I don't know when it happens or how much time passes but my eyes drift closed for a moment and they don't open again until I feel someone prying at my oxygen mask.

Instantly, I try to repel the hand away, terrified by what and who's trying to take my breathing support. "It's okay," Peeta murmurs soothingly and I relax trustingly. "It's just me."

"What's going on?" I ask as I rub my eyes, trying to clear my vision. My eyes are still sore from the smoke exposure too.

As I peer up, depleted still, I realize there's a bowl of water on the floor in front of me. Seeing my confused expression, Peeta explains, "I'm just going to clean some of the soot off you," in a soft voice.

Instantly, my stomach flips at the gesture, a warm feeling overpowering every other emotion inside me. "You don't have to," I say, despite the desire building inside me. Desire I barely understand. Haven't I, time and time again, always taken care of myself? Haven't I always relied solely on my own devices? Haven't I always found a way to help myself?

So why does the idea of being taken care of suddenly seem so appealing?

It's not the idea of being care for, in general, I realize abruptly. It's not the idea of someone else caring for me. It's the idea of Peeta caring for me.

Peeta, who I once swore was out to kill me. Peeta, who I believed was tricking me to win the games himself.

Peeta, who I thought would never so much as look at me without malice again, now wants to help me clean up. My chest constricts in a pleasurable sensation and I can't stop my mouth from turning upwards when he whispers firmly, "let me take care of you, Katniss."

I don't make a peep again as he dips a cloth in the water bowl and wrings it out. The water feels warm as he brings it up to my face, wiping the blackness from my cheeks and chin. He dips it again and then brings it back up to wipe my forehead then downwards to my neck. When he tugs my shirt lower and bathes my collarbone, I can't stop my cheeks now from flushing pink.

He seems to catch the color coming to my face, as he drops the cloth back in the bowl. The only reply he offers though, isn't vocal. Instead it's a subsequent, knowing grin and then his lips, pressing kisses to my face again.

I cups his cheek, gratefully, as his kisses focus on a single spot, near the corner of my mouth. The act is so sweet, so wonderfully sweet, in a way that makes my heart and my stomach flip in ways I didn't know I could like, and it hits me all over again what I did.

And suddenly the kisses feel like poison and I know I cannot accept his affection. "I don't deserve this," I proclaim, the loudest thing I've said since the fire. "I don't deserve you treating me this way."

Almost like a sigh, he pulls away from me at once. "Katniss," he murmurs, and his tone is heavier now.

"I burned down your livelihood, Peeta. Your family business-"

"It was bombed in the war," he reminds me darkly. "You burned down the rebuilt version."

"Still," I maintain, my voice growing more and more persistent and my lungs growing more and more weak. I try to take a breath and slow down. "You shouldn't be taking care of me right now-"

"Okay," he cuts off and his tone surprises me. It's not aggravated or hurt or angry, it's just exasperated. "Sit up," he directs and pulls me by the arms into an upwards position.

I can't stop the words from falling out of my mouth then. "What on Earth do you have to say that requires me to be sitting up?"

He ignores my swipe. "I need you to hear me when I tell you this," he says in a serious tone. "I don't care about the stupid bakery."

"I burned-"

He cuts me off so quickly, I have to believe he already anticipated my words. "The only thing I felt when Haymitch broke down the door and told me about the fire was fear. Blatant fear. That you might be hurt."

I roll my eyes at the dramatics. "You have to care that your business burned down. Because-"

He doesn't even let me finish my sentence. "Every single thing in that building is replaceable." He utters every syllable distinctly, as he glues his eyes to mine, grasping my hands in his much larger ones. "You are not."

At his words, my face crumbles. The moisture that suddenly falls from my eyes can not be attributed to the smoke contact and my violently trembling lip can't be good for my lungs but I can't make it stop. "I just feel so bad," I cry, my voice still strong even while hoarse and cracking.

Peeta's face falls too. His stern expression is replaced with one that matches my grief. "Katniss," he whispers, moving his hands from mine to cup my wet cheeks. "Don't cry, sweetheart. It wasn't your fault. I kept you up all night. I was the one who was rude to you this morning. If anyone's at fault for the bakery burning down, it's me."

But I shake my head instantly, pushing his hands away and refuting his words. "I feel like I've ruined everything in your life," I rasp, the words even shocking me as they come out. It takes me by surprise how true I find the statement to be.

I am the one who couldn't convince Snow, the one who's love didn't ring pure or vast enough to be genuine. I'm the one who had the idea with those stupid berries, the one who broke his heart time and time again, the one who blew out the arena, the reason he was kidnapped and hijacked and turned into a weapon. I'm the reason this district was bombed and so many were murdered, including his family.

This fire is really just another way I've managed to hurt him.

But he apparently isn't having any of this either. His loud, tired sigh is what pulls me out of my head and causes me to look up at him through sore eyes and a congested nose and throat.

His expression softens noticeably as I meet and quickly advert his gaze. Softly, he brings his hands up once again to cup my cheeks. "Look at me, Katniss," he whispers gently, his breath tickling my face now. I see his baby blues flicker with something and I know him so well at this point, I can instinctively see he's contemplating something internally. Whatever it is he's mulling over, he comes to a decision about it, apparently. "The last thing I'm thinking about right now is my business. We can rebuild the bakery. But there isn't another you."

"I know," I reply after a second, my voice getting more and more hoarse. I turn my gaze to look down at our feet, the intensity in Peeta's eyes, the emotion I can't quite place in my current state, only further adding to my remorse.

My eyes snap back up to meet his though, at his next words.

"I love you," he proclaims softly, his eyes awed and tender and reverent. "I love you so much, Katniss Everdeen. And nothing, not the bakery or any other thing in this world, matters as much to me as you."

I don't know what runs through my mind then. My stomach flips and my head whirls in a fearful way that has no connection to the fire.

But my chest aches unexpectedly in the best way possible, and I don't know why but a smile forms on my lips and I feel the tears gather in my eyes once again.

He's clearly not expecting any sort of response—which is great, because God knows what I'd say right now if I tried—but I can't ignore his confession, nor can I stop my body from reacting before the trepidation in my gut can catch up.

I lean in suddenly and, like he's reading my mind, Peeta does too at the same second. Our lips meet in a firm kiss that I can only hope conveys to him how I feel. At least enough of how I feel that I'm not causing him the same havoc I did so many times before.

The kiss lasts only a second but it creates a warm pooling in my belly, contrasting all the knots and fear residing there as well. And I don't know if it's because I'm caught up in the moment or if it's because he's makes me feel safer and happier than anyone else in the world, but as soon as we pull apart, I'm impulsively climbing towards him.

Peeta pulls me onto his lap, straddling him in a tight embrace. I feel his lips touch my shoulder, my neck, my jaw, my cheek. I bury my face into his throat, inhaling to the best of my ability the scent that resides on his skin, no matter what he baked that day or washed his body with in the shower. The scent that is just Peeta.

Vanilla and cinnamon and something entirely his own.

We're so lost in our embrace, in the gentle rocking motion Peeta is swaying us in, that Haymitch's voice startles both of us.

"Kid, you better get her to bed. Her mom will be here in eight hours and Katniss should get some rest before she comes."

For once, the old, unpleasant man sounds truly concerned. For once, he's lacking in his usual drunken stupor and nasty remarks.

That's how I know he was afraid for me. That's how I know he loves me, deep down.

Perhaps it's not just Peeta who I should apologize to.

"Harold said you may need to check on her every two hours," Haymitch continues, his own eyes bleary and red. "I'm going to stay here, sleep on the girl's couch, in case you fall asleep."

"You're welcome to stay and sleep on the couch, Haymitch," Peeta assures, knowing his constant presence in the house that's technically in my name giving him a right to invite guests to stay. "But you don't have to worry. I'm not going to be sleeping tonight." His hand runs through my knotted hair and his lips press to side of my head now. "I'm not sleeping at all tonight."

//////

Peeta carries me upstairs, as I'm still too depleted to make the journey. I have my eyes closed by the time we make it to my—our—room. I don't realize I've even begun to doze off until he reapplies the oxygen mask over my mouth and nose.

I let out a content sigh, gratified by the ability to breathe easily once more.

The comfort the mask brings only lulls me further and further into sleep, until I'm barely hanging onto the edge of consciousness.

I'm still aware enough though to register Peeta sinking into the other side of the bed, to feel him roll over and snuggle close to me. To feel his lips press grateful kisses, all over my face.

His lips move across my temple, down the side of my face, over my cheek and sucking gently on the shell of my ear. His lips silently telling me what his words already have.

I'm so grateful you're here. I'm so grateful I didn't lose you. I'm so grateful you're alive and safe and with me.

As is reading my mind, like our connection has become telepathic, he whispers into my ear, "I'm so happy you're okay."

I'm drifting though and I can barely comprehend his sentiment and it's all I can do to grab his hand and drag it across my body, pull it over me until it's trapped between my face and the bed. Until I can rest my cheek against the back of it. "Stay with me," I mumble just as the world begins to fade to black.

"Always," he promises now, with no hesitation anywhere in his tone. But he isn't finished. The last thing I hear as I slip into the unconscious is a tender, sweet whisper. "I love you, Katniss. So much."

//////

Six days later.

"Peeta? Do you want any more tea?" My mother calls from my kitchen.

"No thank you, Mrs. Everdeen," he declines politely, his hand unconsciously rubbing the side of my bare leg. The burns I sustained are unbandaged, needing air to let them breathe, but his hand still subtly avoids the area on both my thigh and my foot, like he's scared one touch will somehow bring the searing pain back again.

Then again, the idea isn't so crazy, really. Sometimes he touches me without thinking—be it my lower back when walking to town, my stomach when he squeezes past me in the hall, my neck when helping him bake—and elicits a sensation akin to fire without even realizing it.

I'm not helping the matter at the moment, having absently placed my legs in his lap without thinking twice this afternoon.

"Peeta," my mother says, dragging out his name, her smile far more lively than I'd seen it in a long time. "I told you to call me Lily."

He chuckles, but there's an uncomfortable edge to it almost and it makes me smile a bit too, practically reading his mind.

His mother was far too formal to ever allow anyone to call her anything other than Mrs. Mellark. She'd surely ingrained it in her children that it was rude or uncouth to call anyone's parent by their first name.

But we were eighteen now and, after everything between us, it'd only be silly to keep referring to my mother so formally.

Especially since my mother had taken on a much lighter, more tranquil demeanor as of late. Since she'd arrived five days ago to Twelve, a place she said was too difficult to ever see again, too full of memories with those now taken from this world, she'd been far more relaxed and bright than I ever could have anticipated.

Of course, she did have a relative amount of concern regarding her only living child—or family member, period—almost burning up in yet another fire. But after a very thorough inspection of my lungs, throat and eyes, she determined I would recover, as long as I took it easy for a time.

An order that seemed so simple in theory and so difficult in practice. For me, at least.

Peeta tried to make it easier. He baked while I sat on the counter, we added to the memory book, played real or not real in front of the hearth, even read a bit of a book Effie sent from the Capitol.

Okay, we made fun of a book Effie sent from the Capitol. It was about fashion and couture and was illustrated with ridiculous clothing. It was impossible for us to read it with a straight face.

Still though, by the week anniversary of the fire, I was bored out of my mind of laying in bed or on the couch. Not even Johanna coming to Twelve could liven up the days enough for me.

Jo claimed that she was only visiting now by coincidence and that the fire was merely my brainless mistake, not something she'd spend time out of her day fretting over. She said blatantly she didn't worry about the stupid.

Both Peeta and I know that's a lie. Especially since it's day six and she hasn't left yet.

Part of me thinks she's lonely. Part of me thinks Johanna is the loneliest person I've ever known. Including Haymitch.

I don't know what District Seven holds for her there, aside from her past and perhaps some nature comforts. All that hardly seems worth it for her to stay there though, with no real future foreseeable. Living in a district full of ghosts and skeletons you once knew seems like something from my nightmares.

Of course, Twelve doesn't seem much better, I suppose, on paper. But there's a type of community here that doesn't exist in all parts of the country. There's also people here I still feel attached to.

One of which is currently stroking my leg, rather sensually.

I squirm subtly, hoping my mother won't come into the living room and notice. I may be a legal adult but I'm not sure if I'm prepared for any more of her curious looks or suppressed laughter. I don't know if I'm ready for more of her awed glances in our direction or very badly disguised lower lip biting.

I already got my fill of that when she discovered Peeta lived here in my house, slept in my bed with me, cuddled with me at night. I don't know why, but when Haymitch called her to come down after the fire, it didn't occur to me that I'd have to somehow explain my relationship to Peeta. A glaring impossibility, as I don't even know how to define to myself.

How can I explain it to her when I barely can explain it to myself?

Or maybe it's the fact that her presence still makes it harder for me, no matter how sunny and well-adjusted she is now, because she's a physical reminder of everything I fear. Everything I swore not to be. Everything I am still afraid of becoming.

Relying on another person to the point of destruction.

Loving someone to the point of oblivion.

Knowing, very distinctly in your soul, that the loss of this one person will cause you to lose everything. Will cause you to lose your mind.

I'm snapped out of my thoughts by Johanna's pounding footfalls. "Where's your jacket, brainless?" She asks, in a completely even tone.

I don't even react to the insulting nickname. "Left hook."

She doesn't say thank you or even bother to ask about borrowing my coat—not my father's hunting jacket, but a brown velvet one Cinna made me—before calling out that she was heading over to check out the destruction of the bakery. "You're welcome to join," she tells Peeta as she pops her head into the living room. "But I figure you don't want to."

As if proving he isn't sensitive about the loss of his building—quite obviously to alleviate my guilt for the fire—he raises an eyebrow at our friend. "I might stop by in a bit."

Haymitch guffaws from the couch across us as Jo closes the door behind her. "Yeah sure, kid. I'd like to see you try to leave the girl's side."

He's been drinking rather heavily since the fire. Probably also my fault.

I roll my eyes and toss another book Effie sent from the Capitol at Haymitch's head. He barely dodges it but let's the offense slide without reparation. I wonder sardonically, how long his tolerance will last before he's back to screaming profanities at me again or calling me names.

Leaving both him and Peeta to spat among themselves, I carefully maneuver myself to the kitchen, moving slower more so because the amount of time I spend laying down has left me dizzy, rather than anything truly concerning the fire.

"You should go," My mother says as I open the fridge to retrieve some goat's milk. "To see the bakery, I mean."

I snort lightly, moving to stand beside her at the counter, watching her mix an herbal concoction. "What bakery?"

She touches my arm comfortingly. "It was an accident, Katniss. No one thinks it's your fault. And besides," She adds, moving my loose dark hair behind my ear. "The entire structure wasn't destroyed and what was is already set to be rebuilt."

I squint at her, suspicious. "How do you know?"

"I asked around," She states plainly.

"Right," I say, remembering the amount of people in Twelve that respect her. The good it did us when we were starving but I suppose more times than not, there was little help others could offer, as most were famished themselves.

Her hand moves to rub my back maternally and I try to accept the gesture, though erasing the underlying resentment, the miles of distance between us, will always take some conscious effort it seems.

"Go," She insists now, urging me with more vitality to her voice than I'm still used to. "Take Peeta on a walk and go into town. It'd be good for you."

"What's gotten into you?" I can't stop myself from asking suddenly. "You're too... upbeat for someone who hates this place."

"I don't hate this place," she corrects and moves my hair behind my shoulders as she speaks. "It just brings back a lot of memories. Difficult memories that I wasn't ready to face when the war ended."

"When the war ended?" I pick.

She shoots me a light, regretful smile then. "I still find it difficult here sometimes," she amends, before hesitating, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth abruptly. "But... things are easier now."

I raise an eyebrow. Sure, I'm happy to hear things are looking up for her but why? She lost her youngest daughter just over a year ago and her husband a decade back. What exactly has occurred that's brought sunshine back to her life?

As if reading my expression, something I didn't believe she could do, she drops her arm from around me and beckons Peeta. "I think you two should go on a walk into town," She suggests, before passing a device to him. "Bring the inhaler for her in case the walk is difficult on her lungs. But the exercise should be good for her."

I roll my eyes, repelling the feeling of being doctored suddenly. "My lungs are fine," I murmur, pushing my way out of the kitchen and into the living room again. I plop on the couch, my face still masked in a scowl.

"You do need to get out of here," Haymitch remarks, pulling a small pocket sized bottle of white liquor from his pants. "You're starting to sound like me."

Peeta has my father's hunting jacket waiting in hand when I turn towards the door.

//////

"Wow, that back structure is just... gone," Delly says, her tone somehow still surprised, even though she saw the damage days ago.

"Yeah," Jo chimes in. "It's almost like it got burned down."

"Who'd be stupid enough to do that?" I ask, as though the remorse doesn't still make my stomach clench.

Johanna laughs though, hip bumping me unexpectedly. "I don't know. Someone who puts a croissant in a toaster and then falls asleep."

"I still don't understand how the fire burned so quickly," Kanon notes from Jo's other side.

"Because Peeta decided that wooden countertops is the best thing to have near the ovens."

Delly opens her mouth to say something else, probably defend Peeta, who is currently talking with Thom and Val and a few other men, closer to the fire sight. But she's called over by a girl I faintly recognize and quickly skips away.

Johanna let's out an audible sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure how much more I could take of her," she murmurs, scratching at the scars on her temple. Scars she still has from the Capitol, though her shoulder length hair now covers it. "She's too cheery, all the time."

Kanon though, uncharacteristically, chimes in before I can. "I think Delly's great," he says, more defensive than I've ever heard him. "I like that she's so upbeat."

"Good for you," Jo shoots back and then laughs a little. "Why? Do you have a crush on her?" I nudge Johanna, hard, then. Kanon isn't talkative to many people as it is, she doesn't need to make him more afraid.

But my attention is quickly diverted by the another voice. Abruptly, my attention is drawn to the girl Delly's talking to. I narrow my eyes, trying to place her for a long moment, before the answer comes to me. Charlotte Tyne. One of the town kids who Peeta used to hang out with at school.

Not one of the nice ones, I'll say. She always knocked over Seam kids' books or backpacks and made a point of talking over them in class or cutting in front of them in line. For some reason, I distinctly remember with utter clarity, her shoving me and Prim aside the day my father died in the mine explosion. We'd been rushing towards the exit, me frantically pulling my seven-year-old sister behind me, and Charlotte had almost knocked us off our feet. For no reason, I might add, as it was not even a faint possibility that it could be her father in the mines. She had no reason to be in a rush that day.

The memory drags up a sour taste in my mouth and a small part of me thinks of taking a huff off the inhaler, just to calm my breathing now hitched with anger.

Hearing Charlotte and Delly's conversation doesn't do much to help either.

In fact, it only amplifies my ire.

"So, is he upset that his family business burned down?" Charlotte asks lightly, glancing towards Peeta and Thom in the short distance.

Delly shrugs a little, seeming uncomfortable with her old friend. "It wasn't the same bakery his family lived in, technically," she points out, her voice quieter than I've ever heard it.

Charlotte's brassy, tangled curls fly over her shoulder as the wind blows harder. "Doesn't matter," she replies, shrugging it off as inconsequential. "I was just thinking... you know?"

Delly raises an eyebrow at her, appearing a little lost. "No?"

"About Peeta!" Charlotte exclaims, like her point is blatant. She gestures towards him widely. "He's probably really sad right now. Like we all have been at some point, since the war. I was just asking if you think he's up for a little... friendship."

Delly's tone shifts from quiet and confused to outright humorous. "Oh, Peeta has plenty of friends, don't worry, Lottie."

I stifle a laugh myself then, and I see in my peripheral vision Johanna roll her eyes. Evidently she's listening in as well. I turn my head and we exchange a subtle glance, trying to not give away that we're eavesdropping.

"Well, I know that," Charlotte says dryly. Whatever she means by that implication, I don't know. I'm beginning to think these kids from town don't all know each other as well as I thought from the outside. "He's Rye's baby brother, after all."

Jo shoots me a questioning look at that, having never known Peeta's brother. I just offer her a nod in affirmation. Rye was always quite popular, particularly with females. Even the girls from the Seam liked him.

A faint flash of a different world flies before my eyes. A world where Rye volunteered for Peeta the day of the Reaping, where he'd been my district partner. He'd probably have faired alright with the Capitol crowd, as while he had none of Peeta's charisma, he had triple the confidence.

But he wasn't observant nor was he too quick on his feet when it came to thinking. He did beat his brothers in wrestling but Peeta didn't win the games with me because we were great wrestlers.

Rye wouldn't have survived once we entered the arena, that much I know. Because I probably would have killed him. Killed him to come home to my sister again, to win the games for Rue. Rye wouldn't have gotten to me like Peeta, he wouldn't have held the same connection to me or crawled beneath my skin like his brother managed to.

Whether I ever admitted it or not, there was always an invisible string that bound me to Peeta. From the moment he tossed me that bread, there was a pull there that nothing could erase, that no other tribute—aside from maybe Gale, I acknowledge somewhat begrudgingly—could have rivaled.

Charlotte continues with ease. "Anyways, do you think Peeta would want to come to dinner this week?"

Delly's mouth pushes into a line that looks like an unattractive smile, like she doesn't know how to repress her grin, never having much practice at the act.

I've spent so much time with her as of late, I know that's exactly her reasoning.

"Um, Lottie," she starts, twisting her mouth around uncomfortably. "Peeta might be busy."

The other girl just blinks. "Busy?"

Delly evidently is tired of beating around the bush. "With Katniss." Off her friend's blank look, she adds, "Everdeen?"

"I know who she is," Charlotte snaps, her face turning puzzled. "I just... didn't she burn down the bakery?"

Johanna laughs out loud at that statement and I pinch her arm until she hisses like Buttercup and smacks my shoulder in retribution.

"It was an accident," Delly defends, point blank. And I suddenly appreciate the blonde with the annoying voice and terrible timing even more.

"So... he's with her?" Charlotte asks, like it's so unbelievable—as if half the district hasn't already made that assumption months ago—but before Delly can reply, Peeta himself comes walking up now.

And hugs Charlotte, no less.

"Hi!" He exclaims happily as she returns his embrace enthusiastically, swaying herself in his arms, her skinny, long wrists locked around his neck in a chokehold.

"Peeta! I've missed you!"

"I missed you too!" He returns the sentiment sweetly as they break apart. Too sweetly. "I haven't seen you since you've been back? How long have you been in Twelve?"

"Oh, probably three weeks? I'm not sure, it's been hard to keep track. After the war, Mary and our father wanted to travel around a bit, see the other rebuilt districts. We're not sure if we're going to stick around Twelve permanently yet," she explains casually, her sight trained entirely on Peeta now. She's entirely forgotten that Delly is still standing next to her, clearly too distracted by her infatuation to notice her own friend.

Delly even, as oblivious as the girl can be, rolls her eyes and walks away to speak with Thom and another man.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I hope to see you again?" Peeta says, with all the genuine sentiment can offer. He's serious too. He wants to see her again, spend additional time with her. Endorse more of these flirtatious comments.

He is either blind to her antics or he's enjoying himself.

And I probably look like a statue, not at all remaining inconspicuous with my eavesdropping now.

I hear Johanna snicker at me. At me and my narrowed eyes, unmoving posture and permanent scowl in place.

"You look like you're going to pounce," she murmurs to me, rolling her eyes a little. "Calm down. He's just talking to her."

I'm about to snap at Jo, tell her to back off, I'm not even upset, I'm just listening, when Charlotte speaks again.

"Oh, maybe you can come visit me? I'm not sure where I'll be headed next but maybe I can give you a call? Keep you in the loop if you want to take a trip?" She moves her hand to touch his arm, giving it a tight squeeze.

"Sure," Peeta agrees, his voice still happy and pleasant and grating on my nerves.

A chill runs down my spine suddenly. Would Peeta really take a trip to go visit his friend, in a different district?

Mentally, I berate myself. I'm the only one exiled to Twelve. Not him. He can go wherever he pleases. And it's not fair, I tell myself, to hold him here just because I've grown so attached to our day to day life together. Just because I can't sleep at night without his arms around me or because I've found myself as time passes by, more and more, cutting hunting in the woods short to head to the bakery, to hurry back home, to spend more time with him instead.

It's not fair though, for me to expect it. For me to place that burden on his shoulders. If Peeta wants to go visit Charlotte or any of his other friends—God knows he had a plethora of them when we were in school—that's his choice. I tell myself to suck up my own feelings at the idea. Not everything he does is about me.

But I can't ignore the tiny voice in the back of my mind that says when Peeta's gone, it's the only time I truly feel like I'm in exile. It's the only time I truly feel alone.

"Great," Charlotte exclaims, her brown eyes—the one thing that differentiates her from the others in the Merchant class—bright as Capitol fireworks. "Do you want to stop by my house later and give me your number? I don't have anything to write it down with now. And of course, I don't know what my number will be wherever I do end up traveling-"

Peeta cuts her off then. Not soon enough in my book. "Oh, I think Thom has a pen and paper you can borrow," he says, loud enough to draw Thom, the person who's surveying the damage for the official district records, over.

Charlotte greedily grabs the objects and Jo now nudges me again with a smirk and a nod towards the other girl, as if I'm not already noticing the way she's stepping closer and closer to Peeta, as if she's about to kiss him.

The image of her doing just that plays before my eyes and I feel my vision whirl and my heart thud dramatically. The fury leads me to dig my teeth into my bottom lip and I push myself to take a deep breath again.

"Four-nine-six," Peeta lists off, and my teeth free themselves instinctively, before my mind even recognizes why. "Three-two..." He hesitates, in a way that seems natural, authentic, sincere.

To those who don't really know him, that is.

I've watched him lie over and over again on camera, play up countless fabrications, tell blatant myths, to cover up the truth, to protect me and him.

"Three-two," he repeats again, before turning his head to glance nonchalantly in my direction. "What's the rest of our phone number, Katniss?"

Jo almost spits with laughter as I furrow my brows at him, taken aback.

I'm still not as quick on my feet as him. I probably never will be. But it takes me less time to recover than Charlotte and I manage, in a pleasant enough tone, to call out, "Seven-Seven."

"Right," he agrees and then winks at me. "Seven-seven. Katniss is the one who remembers the small details," he adds to Charlotte, as if he's oblivious now to her shock.

The rest of their exchange is short and polite. She leaves, citing her father needing her home soon, and walks away without so much as a glance towards Delly or the rest of us.

I roll my eyes as she disappears down the road, feeling another gaze trained on me now.

But I'm still irritated with him, for that stupid show he put on. I'm not jealous, not in the slightest, but I am mad that he'd drag out that exchange for no utter reason at all.

It's a small area we're in however, and I can't avoid him forever. It only takes him about ten minutes to find me alone, in the back, behind one of the bakery's surviving walls.

"Hello," he says softly, and I glare at him. "What's wrong?"

I don't even pretend to not be annoyed. "Whatever that was between you and Charlotte."

He chuckles a little and I recoil like I've been burned once again.

"Were you intentionally trying to flirt with her in front of me?" I snap.

"Katniss, Lottie flirts with everyone. She always has. She's an old friend of Rye's. Her brother was in Wheaton's class. I've known her for years." His hand moves to push my hair behind my ear, and despite the shiver his gentle touch leaves when it caresses me, I still move a step away.

"So she's practically as close to you as Delly then?"

"What?" He repeats, like it's ridiculous. And has the audacity to even smile a little in befuddlement. "Katniss, Delly is my best friend. Charlotte is someone who mainly talked to me because she wanted Rye."

"You two seemed pretty close," I still say, maybe a little bitter.

"If something was going to happen between me and her, it would have occurred and been done with when we were twelve. Not at eighteen. Not after everything me and you have been through," he states now, being entirely honest. Being entirely real.

I nod, accepting that but still scowling. "She was all over you," I point out in a monotone, after a beat. He just raises an eyebrow, like it's no big deal. Maybe to him it wasn't, but it made my blood boil like nothing else. It dug up a fury in me that I didn't expect and I still can't explain why. I still can't grasp why I felt so betrayed, just witnessing their exchange.

"She touched my arm," he points out, his tone still calm and even. He takes a risk and steps towards me, reaching out again and touching my cheek, trying to turn my face towards him again. "What should I have done? Shoved her off? Made a scene?"

"Yes," I murmur automatically, glancing at him from the corner of my eye sheepishly. I know he's right, that he handled it the best he could have while remaining polite and friendly, but I just really don't care.

He chuckles at that, leaning one hand against the wall, his eyes falling shut for a minute. He swipes his free hand across his face, unable to wipe away his smile, and though I find it irritating, I also feel my heart skip a beat in my chest. I feel a warmth spread into my stomach and my anger ebbs away unconsciously.

"Katniss," he says in a tone that resembles honey, kind and sweet, and reaches out to put his hand on my hip.

And, unexpectedly, even to me, I take it a step further and shove my mouth onto his. I press my lips to his unsuspecting ones and I drag my hand through his blonde curls and pull myself closer.

It only takes a moment for him to react, used to my ambushes now. Peeta pulls me into him tighter, before closing more of the distance and lifting me upwards, eliminating our height gap.

His tongue pushes its way into my mouth and I open up and let him through willingly.

With every moment that passes, every moment we remain locked in an embrace, I feel the wretched, furious feeling slowly dissipate further and further.

The more seconds that pass, that anger is replaced with a different kind of passion, welling up inside of me, spilling out everywhere. Spilling through my arms, running down my legs, dripping from my fingertips. Like every nerve in my body is suddenly set on fire.

At least, until Peeta speaks again. "I didn't mean to make you jealous," he whispers against my mouth as he pulls back, his lips still touching mine as they move.

"I wasn't jealous," I instantly refute, my eyes hardening noticeably.

His lips move lower, to kiss my jaw and then my chin, settling there. Through his repeated kisses, he nods agreeably. "Okay."

"Okay?" I pick, not wanting to feel like he's just placating me.

"Okay," he says again. "If you say you weren't jealous, then you weren't." His words would be more convincing if he wasn't smirking again.

"I wasn't," I maintain.

"I believe you." His mouth slides upwards, hovering over mine. "But just know, there's no one you should feel jealous of."

"Noted," I reply sternly, before fusing my mouth back over his.

I waste no time now, shoving my tongue over the threshold of his lips, battling with his for a long moment before letting him take control.

When his teeth nibble on my lip, I let out an unexpected moan, much to my chagrin.

I’m so distracted by the taste of his kiss, the tug only Peeta can elicit in my stomach, begging for more, the electric current I feel running between our lips, as strong as a bolt of lightening, that I barely register his hand slipping underneath my shirt, gliding across my hip and over my ribs, until it reaches my chest.

If my moan before was unexpected, the squeak that omits from the back of my throat is an outright shock.

At that moment though, another noise fills the air. Another noise that definitively did not come from me. It didn’t come from Peeta either.

I haven't even known her for any comparable measure of time to Peeta, and yet, I instantly recognize Delly's yelp—of excitement? Or shock? Or any of her other emotions, considering she makes this noise a lot—and break away from Peeta instantly.

Behind us, now staring into our eyes like two caught mating animals, is Delly and Kanon. Both looking like the things I shoot with my bow. Both in a very similar position to me and Peeta right now, wrapped up in each other, twisted together incredibly inappropriately.

Peeta swiftly sets me on my feet at the same time Delly chokes out, "I didn't see you guys here?"

I just stare between them for a moment. I knew they were friends and I knew Kanon gave Delly a job to keep her out of the factory work she'd forced herself to endure to provide for her brother, Khyser. I knew her and Kanon spent plenty of time together.

I did not know however that they'd become a couple. The idea doesn't compute in my mind for a long moment. My brain wracks itself for any other possibilities, for any other reasons they could be standing here, looking like they do.

There is none. Somehow Kanon, the quiet, timid, loner who's one of the hardest workers and most genuine people in Twelve has fallen for Delly, a loud, bubbly, overly helpful Merchant girl.

As I digest the idea, I realize I sort of like it.

Peeta works through all this before I do. "Oh, so I see now why you two volunteered to try and salvage anything you could from the wreckage," he quips, looking down at me coyly. "I think me and you are in their spot."

"No," Delly objects, as Kanon just stares at us, his dark skin even turning a little red. "No, this is your bakery, we shouldn't even-"

"It's fine," I try to calmly assure, but it comes out still laced with surprise. "You two don't need to apologize."

Delly acts as if she doesn't hear me. "We should get home," she tells Kanon, before her gaze falls back to us. "I mean, he should walk me home-"

"Have a nice walk, Dells," Peeta calls with a laugh before turning back to face me. I wait until they slip away around the other side of the wall to look at him.

"Did you see that coming?" I press, still feeling a little thrown.

"What? Delly and Kanon? Of course. Everyone saw that coming, Katniss."

I give him an incredulous look. "I didn't."

"Of course you didn't," he teases and I playful shove him away an inch. "So you're telling me that you missed Delly's doe eyes and Kanon following her around like a puppy, but you caught onto Charlotte's flirting?"

"One of those was impossible to miss," I retort.

"I hope you mean Kanon and Delly."

I roll my eyes, half feigning irritation now and move to walk around him, to head back to the others. But he lightly grabs my hand, propelling me back towards him. "Don't go yet," he implores, pressing soft kisses to my mouth.

"I just thought I'd go where people didn't mock me."

"You'd be bored in three seconds and you know it."

I let out a tiny laugh at his words, knowing it was probably true. I'd probably miss him poking fun at me if I did ever manage to leave him.

God knows how how much I missed him while he was getting evaluated in the Capitol.

"Now, what was it we were doing before Kanon and Delly interrupted?" He mumbles rhetorically, moving his mouth to my chin again, pressing kisses there over and over again. "Before we were interrupted?"

I smirk, unable to stop myself from teasing him now. "Oh, you know. No competition... best thing that ever happened to you..."

I don't know why but I'm taken aback that he automatically recognizes the moment I'm quoting.

His words to me, in that cold cave, in our first games. His genuine flirting even when our lives were at stake.

"You're right," he murmurs, pressing a warm kiss to my mouth. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

//////

Two weeks later.

"Real or not real, you never brush your hair?" Peeta quips, detangling my messy locks. I'd spent the day hunting—and just appreciating the woods and all their beauty—for the third time since the fire.

My mother had left to head back to Four over a week ago but she hadn't forgotten to give strict instructions to both my old mentor and Peeta. I still, according to her, should take it easy. I still shouldn't be participating in strenuous activities, should remain eating predominantly protein and fiber, and especially should not take a long walk to places isolated from everyone else in the district.

I asked her blankly if she couldn't tell that was the entire appeal of the the woods.

However much I disliked her instructions though, I still followed them. Peeta and Haymitch still—trying and failing to be subtle—did their best to keep me from heading out there, going as far as claiming they needed my help rounding up those geese.

But my lungs felt healed now and I hadn't ever used the inhaler and the first two times I went out hunting were the first times I'd truly felt okay since the bakery caught fire.

Today however, wasn't as enjoyable, as a thunderstorm ruined any chance of game and soaked me to the bone.

And of course, tangled up my hair real good, according to Peeta.

"Not real," I reply sternly, shooting a glare over my shoulders at him.

Peeta rolls his eyes but remains smiling. "You like it when people brush your hair," he says in a teasing tone. "Real or not real?"

"Not real," I reply honestly, but a coy smile fills my face now too.

"Not real?" He repeats in disbelief. "You've complained every time I try to stop-"

"You asked if I like it when people brush my hair. You didn't say I liked it when you did it."

Of all the things he's ever said to me, of all his suggestive words and heartfelt declarations, it's this statement from me that makes him blush.

His fingers replace the brush and comb through my still wet tresses soothingly. "Real or not real, you make lamb stew three times a week?"

I snort at that. "You're the one who ordered the cans of them from the Capitol," I retort.

"Cans, Katniss. Cans that don't go bad for months."

"I don't like being wasteful with food."

"And I'm sure it being your favorite Capitol meal has nothing to do with it."

"You're welcome, Mr. Baker, to bake whatever dinner you'd like."

His lips touch my forehead. "I'll keep that in mind."

I peer back at him from the corner of my eye. "Don't get too experimental."

He laughs at that, before moving his hands from my hair to my back, rubbing lightly. "Real or not real, it's freezing outside."

"Real," I confirm and shiver at the memory of the rain hours ago. "Why else would we be in bed?"

Typically, days lingering in bed held a darker connotation. Typically, when one of us was in bed after a certain hour—usually a fairly early one—it was cause for great alarm within the other. But today, with the terrible chill outside and the freezing draft, neither of us dared to even brave waiting for the fireplace to warm us in the living room.

Instead, when I arrived back to the house soaking wet and maybe a little edgy, we chose to bask in the warmth of our sheets, adding all the blankets either of us owned to the bed. Peeta had even shut the window and lit candles in the room.

My words though, I realize too late, could be misconstrued.

I know the double meaning isn't lost on Peeta. He's the expert between the two of us, when it comes to flirting.

Difference is, he does it intentionally most times. I seldomly mean for anything suggestive to come out of my mouth.

"I have no idea, Katniss," he says with a lithe to his voice now. His hand moves from my hair to slide underneath my shirt, traveling across my ribs, eliciting a laugh from me as I playfully push his hand away.

"You know what I meant," I retort, rolling my eyes but a blush floods my cheeks and it's his turn to laugh.

"You're easily embarrassed, real or not real?" He teases as he leans in and kisses my cheek.

"Can we start asking questions about you please? I'm tired of my segment."

He smirks still and lays back against the pillows, shifting his legs so I slide from his lap until I'm seated between his knees. "Ask whatever you wish," he offers, looking purely blissful.

"Real or not real, Delly is your best friend?"

"I see you started with the tough questions."

"For someone with your confidence level, you need to step up your own half of this game," I snark.

He feigns offended for a moment before smiling again. "Real. If you couldn't tell by her no-knocking policy."

"Good thing it's too cold for her to make the trip today," I say aloud before realizing maybe I shouldn't.

He's not even remotely offended. Instead, he takes the opportunity to jab at me again. "You've come to like Delly a lot more than you expected, real or not real?"

Okay, so that may be true but I still don't dignify it with a confirmation. "It's my turn to ask the questions, thank you very much," I say with superiority. "You've known Val since fourth grade, real or not real?"

"Not real," he automatically replies, absently tracing a circle into my back through my shirt. I give him a quizzical look until he corrects the statement. "I've known him since second grade."

"My mistake."

"It was."

I smile again, despite myself, before trying to think up a better question. I think for a moment, glancing back again at Peeta's position against the pillows. His easy smirk and the glint in his eyes indicate he's happy. They indicate there's nothing awful on his mind, maybe for once.

So, as per usual, the first thing I do is unconsciously destroy it.

"Real or not real, you used to win wrestling competitions at school?"

His reaction isn't what I expect. "Not real," he says blankly, a frown marring his features suddenly.

I crane my neck back to get a better look at him. "What do you mean, not real?" I press. "Even I used to watch you beat everyone during your matches. You beat Jack Wimpiper and Blade Smith."

"I never could beat Rye though," Peeta points out and I realize he's right. He didn't ever get first place, he came in second to his big brother.

"Oh." I look down, at temporary loss for words. "Well, Rye always got first in everything so getting second place next to him was like winning."

At that, Peeta rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful. "Can we move on?"

I know I probably should let him lead here, since we're talking about his dead brother, but my stubborn streak proves dominant and I can't help pushing him for more. "What's wrong, Peeta?" In the last few seconds, his sunny demeanor has fallen to the wayside.

"Nothing."

"Tell me," I insist, turning around and moving closer to him, laying my head comfortably on his chest. "What won't you tell me?"

He sighs and I feel his hand rub my arm softly. "It's nothing, it's just... I have complex feelings about my brothers, that's all."

"That's all?" I repeat, like the word taste funny.

I feel his reluctance at this subject starting to ebb away, replaced with impatience towards my pressing. "Rye won everything, he was the one everyone in the district loved." Peeta pauses again and then shrugs, his fingers dancing down my side now.

His words were true, Rye Mellark was one of the more popular town kids. Even I knew that, and I scarcely interacted with anyone at school aside from Madge and maybe Gale.

Rye won a majority of school competitions, especially in wrestling. Plenty of the girls thought he was attractive and funny and sweet. He wasn't much of a baker, according to what Madge told me once, but he was smart enough to successfully market the merchandise in their parents' shop.

"Sometimes it wasn't easy being his brother," Peeta adds after a beat.

I already know what he's thinking now, without looking at his face. "And that makes you feel terrible because he's dead."

"Yup," he confirms quietly. I unconsciously relax towards my body into his now, trying to comfort him.

It's got to be hard, I realize, to lose your entire family all at once and be left with unresolved tension lingering behind.

"Is this why you haven't added either of your brothers to the memory book?" I inquire lightly, keeping my voice non-judgmental.

Peeta shrugs again and then wraps both arms tighter around me, reaching over to yank the sheets up higher as a chill filters throughout the room. "I don't know what to say for them," he finally admits. "That Wheaton was smart? Everyone knew that. That Rye was popular? I don't think I'd be adding anything special about them so why even bother?"

His attitude, as depressing as it is, is acutely familiar. It's the same attitude he had on our first train ride to the Capitol, for our first games.

This is his already defeated persona. The one I hate with a fiery passion.

"You could say Wheaton was brilliant and list all the academic awards he got," I suggest firmly, my desire to rid him of his attitude in high gear. "And you could say Rye was funny and talkative and outgoing."

To my surprise, he snorts at that. "Yeah, those are memorable descriptions."

"Well, what would you write then if you had to? If you had absolutely no other choice?" I challenge, my voice still insistent.

He shrugs lightly. "That Wheaton was the smartest person our family ever had and he made even my mother proud. Which neither me nor Rye ever did. And Rye was friendliest person I ever knew. To most people. He was the son my father really needed. He brought out his talkative side and he was charismatic. And really brave-"

At that, I can't let this go on. "Peeta, what're talking about?"

He shoots me a confused look. "What?"

"Rye wasn't brave?" I murmur definitively. "If he was so brave, he would have volunteered for you at the reaping."

Peeta doesn't speak for a long moment. "Rye had a lot more going for him so... he probably didn't want to screw his life up. Or end it. Not over me, at least."

The self-pitying edge is evaporating from his tone, leaving behind just a resignation that bothers me even more somehow.

"I was the sole provider of my family and I volunteered for Prim."

"It's different," he automatically refutes.

"How?"

"You loved Prim more than anything. Rye tolerated me most of the time." He voice shifts though, as he lets out a bitter laugh. A noise I have come to hate so much. "Even though he probably would have done better in the games than me."

I look up at him, irritation clouding my vision suddenly. "What're you talking about now?"

He's undeterred by my tone. "Rye probably would have done better in the games. He would have for sure been a better district partner to you."

"Okay, stop talking like that," I demand, shaking my head like a maniac. "You have to me insane if you think Rye would have been a better partner to me?"

Peeta rolls his eyes and gives me a dark look. "He wouldn't have been dead weight in the games. He was a better fighter so he probably would have beaten Cato and kept both his legs. He wouldn't have dragged you into that cave-"

"He wasn't charismatic in the least," I cut off, remembering his previous words and examining them in comparison to the person I only fainted experienced firsthand. "Rye couldn't convince anyone of anything. Every time he tried, he started laughing."

"So?"

"So, Peeta, how did you win the games?" My tone isn't at all gentle, it's harsh and frustrated. But I've learned—through trial and error—that sometimes it's the only way I can get through to him.

"I had you as a district partner." Now he's just trying to be snarky.

"How did you win over the Capitol crowd?" I rephrase.

He looks away from me, petulantly. "I said I was in love with you."

"Peeta, you won over the crowd because you're a fantastic speaker. A fantastic actor."

He scoffs now, openly. "Katniss, I wasn't acting. Okay, maybe you're right. Maybe I am a better speaker than Rye is-was." My eyes soften considerably at his correction, and I sigh softly and lean up from his arms, moving carefully to face him directly. "But I wasn't lying to the Capitol crowds. I was in love with you. I am," he corrects, as an afterthought. "I am in love with you."

At that, I feel my heart melt. "Peeta Mellark," I whisper, and shift again, climbing closer to him, straddling his lap. "You were not useless in the games. You got in with the careers, you saved me after I got stung by the tracker jackers, you won over the Capitol. I wouldn't have won without you."

"That's a lie," he says, but his gaze is beginning to lighten up.

"It's not a lie. Rye and me wouldn't have survive. You're just as much the reason we won as I am."

He turns his eyes downwards to our legs, offering only a lift and fall of his shoulders, no longer wishing to debate.

"You saved me, Peeta," I state again, hoping if I say it to him enough, it'll drive the point home. "And I am so proud I had you as my district partner." I know I should stop, as speeches aren't my forte and I'll surely mess this up, but I can't make my mouth quit and more words come tumbling out. "Forget what your mother thought. I'm proud of you. I'm so incredibly proud of you-"

I'm unexpectedly cut off by his lips covering mine. He stifles my sentiment with a kiss, his mouth moving to suck gently on my bottom lip, knowing that I like it, before his tongue moves to sneak inside my mouth unsuspectingly.

I return his kiss, with as much enthusiasm I can muster when taken off-guard, letting my tongue find his after a long moment, with uncharacteristic greed.

He pulls back slightly when we're both out of breath, his lips still hovering above mine. "You don't know how much that means to me," he breathes quietly, his nose rubbing against mine now. His sky blue eyes peer into my grey ones, entirely filled with awe. Just when I think he's going to kiss me again though, he reiterates his sentiment. "You don't know how much that means to me. You don't know how much you mean to me, Katniss."

Chapter Text

Eight days later.

Delly prattles on from across the table, talking a million miles a minute. Every sentence of her's running into the next, leaving no room for possible interruptions.

Haymitch is about ready to beat his head into the wall, never knowing what to do with the perky town girl, but I kick him under the table, silently warning him to behave. Delly is a lot of things but kind is near the top of that list, and loyal and genuine are right behind it. There's no need to be offensive, even if I can only handle her some days in small doses myself.

Peeta, on the other hand, can take her in large heaps, never tiring of hearing his best friend regale her day to day antics over our occasional dinners. In fact, he's happier when she's here. When she has dinner or dessert, or even just a quick lunch with us—she always likes to eat during visits—Peeta's smile grows wider, his eyes shine brighter and he laughs harder.

Of course, whenever I offer to give them privacy, maybe with a slight ulterior motive to escape away to the woods, his face instantly falls in a way I cannot stand. With everything inside of me, I can't stand that look of disappointment or hurt in his eyes.

"But remember how Rye used to-used to say," Delly tries to get out through her giggles.

Peeta nods rapidly, tears of laughter nearly spilling from his lids. He tries to reply to her, but the words become choked up in his throat, stifled by the guffaws overpowering his vocal box.

He looks absolutely ridiculous. They both do, to be honest.

His pale skin is turning pink from the lack of air permitted in through the chortles and he's about to rest his laughing face between his hands. He's gotten water all over the front of his shirt in his fit of giggles already and I cannot comprehend a word he's still trying to say.

And my heart skips a beat in my chest at the sight. At the sight of him so blissful and healthy and whole again. At him with his best friend, laughing uncontrollably, as carefree as he always should have been. As I always want him to be.

I watch him patiently, with soft eyes and a small smile playing on the corners of my own mouth, waiting for him to calm down.

When he does, he instantly turns to me, sensing my gaze. "Hi," he murmurs gently, wiping his wet eyes with the heel of his hand and using his other to intertwine our fingers.

Instead of responding though, I merely lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek. Then another to the corner of his mouth and then his jaw.

He strokes my hair as I pull back slowly, his baby blues lighting up now in a completely different way. "What was that for?"

I shrug though, the explanation seeming fruitless to vocalize.

Because you're so sweet and so kind and so happy.

Because you make me so happy.

Because I always want you to be this happy.

Instead of saying any of these things, I choose to explain it in a much more simple and definitive way. "Because I wanted to."

Peeta leans in now and pecks my lips with his, somehow creating a spark that still lasts for a moment after he pulls back.

"What was that for?" I ask now, turning his question around with a smirk of my own.

He gives me a rather coy look himself. "Because I wanted to."

/

Four days later.

"Give me that," Peeta complains while I hold the bowl full of batter to my chest.

Since the rebuilt bakery isn't open yet, Peeta has decided to make small amounts of pastries from our kitchen to sell among the district residents.

And I may or may not have returned from the woods, and stolen the sweet smelling concoction under the pretense of helping him stir the ingredients together.

"You've already made enough to feed all of Twelve," I say, twisting to keep the bowl out of his reach.

"Katniss," he deadpans, in a tone of disapproval, edging on annoyance.

"It's just one bowl," I murmur lightly, offering him a sweet smile over my shoulder. "You don't need it really."

His hands drop from their attempts to reach around me, falling to his side in surrender. "Fine, you win," he concedes, backing away, his body already turning back to the other pans and dishes on the counter.

But he never gives up that easily or let's me steal his treats for the business. "Really?" I question in disbelief, raising both my eyebrows.

I turn back towards him and make the mistake of letting my guard down. I'm so out of practice, since the games and the war ended, that I don't consider he might be tricking me.

"No," he instantly refutes and the bowl radiating with cinnamon and vanilla and chocolate is pulled from my grasp instantaneously.

"Hey!" I exclaim, feeling betrayed. I lunge for the dish stubbornly, but Peeta blocks my attempt.

Instead I find myself scooped up in his arms, lifted midair, my chest suddenly pressed to his. "Don't be a thief," he chides playfully now, his lips close to my ear. "It's unkind."

"So is you not letting me sample that bowl."

His lips press against my cheek, lingering there for a long moment as I concede and sag against him, letting him support my weight. "It's not for you, Katniss. It's for Mrs. Greenstead's order."

"She doesn't really need it though," I point out, my gaze growing maybe a little bitter. "And, for the record," I add, his past comment catching up to me now. "I am not a thief."

He chuckles at that, like it's a private joke. "I don't know. You stole my heart pretty easily."

/

Five days later.

"Do you need a raise?" Peeta is asking when I come into the living room.

"No, no, nothing like that," Kanon immediately refutes, holding up his palms. "I just need to adjust my hours so I can work more hours at the candy shop and stay at the bakery-"

"Why do you need to work at both?" I inquire, cutting him off and announcing my presence in one act.

"Hello, you," Peeta greets as I come to stand by his side, my eyes still on Kanon.

"Because," the slightly older man starts, looking exasperated. "The government is raising the taxes on property around here. Even more for those of us who aren't living in our home districts anymore. I just need to find a way to increase my income. I've decided to open the candy shop longer and-"

"Or you could just move into Peeta's old house here in Victor's Village?" I suggest, without even consulting the homeowner in question. "The houses here aren't taxed. Peeta could sell it to you or rent it out-"

"Sweetheart, are you offering the boy's house without even asking him?" Haymitch remarks from his chair in the dining room. I can practically smell the white liquor from here.

Peeta's hand though touches the back of my head before leaning down to kiss my temple. "I think it's a great idea," he says, eyeing Kanon meaningfully.

But Kanon isn't looking too agreeable. "I don't need your charity. You two have done enough for me-"

"I don't live there, Kanon," Peeta points out. "The house is just taking up space, collecting dust."

"And he needs an additional income too, you know. They're raising business tax as well," I throw out, my expression matching that of Peeta's, both of us trying to appear persuasive.

Kanon opens his mouth to refuse, more than likely, when Haymitch chimes in again. "You know it's not just about you, kid. That blonde girl who's always following you around probably wants a nice house too."

At the mention of Delly, Kanon adverts his eyes, bashful. But his defensive expression softens and after a long moment of contemplation, he murmurs to Peeta, "Just... don't go easy on the rent, okay?"

I wait until Kanon heads back to town, presumably to grab Delly and head home, to murmur lightheartedly, "You're going to need to clean the furniture out of your house soon."

Peeta chuckles, his arm still squeezed around my waist. "You know this means you're stuck with me now? I have no other place to go if you want me out of your hair."

I lean up at his words, catching him off-guard by initiating a kiss. "I don't want you out of my hair." My flirting attempts have improved marginally over time. If I do say so myself.

"You better not," Haymitch mutters, loud enough for us to hear. "Because he's not sharing my bedroom."

We both laugh at the very image.

/

Ten days later.

I admire the new dark wooden paneling that Thom and his crew put in the back room of the bakery. It goes with the old structure, the part of it that survived the fire at least, and looks intentional in the best way possible.

Peeta reopened the bakery only a few days ago and already is selling out. The fire I caused traveled across the districts, perhaps because of Johanna who likes both traveling and spreading gossip, as much as she claims to refrain from the act, and the subsequent talk prompted the business' reopening and even interested investors in franchising the Mellark Bakery brand.

The subsequent amount of customers though, means Peeta will be late home for the foreseeable future.

I've pretended not to mind all week—and for the most part I haven't. I have kept busy without much effort, as I have discovered an affinity for visiting the Community Home as of late.

The sheer number of starving, parentless kids has only grown by leaps and bounds since the rebellion and, considering I had a huge part in the war that took their families, I find comfort in bringing extra meat I hunt, blankets, old toys and pastries Peeta doesn't mind donating to the children a few times a week.

Haymitch found my newfound interest rather laughable, having incredulously gazed at me through inebriated eyes and asked why I was knitting a sweater the size of a large dog.

But then he accidentally ran into me head on two nights later when I walked through the entrance to the Community Home and I haven't heard a peep about my donations since.

However, I don't live at the Community Home. And I can't spend every night there, without annoying the real staff, so subsequently, with it being too dark in the evening to hunt and the house too empty to remain in alone, I find myself gravitating towards the bakery after hours.

My tread is still as light as it always was and Peeta isn't expecting me, not knowing how bored I am at times without him near. Consequentially, I remain undetected as I peer out front from the doorway of the back room.

To my surprise, Haymitch is here in the dimmed business too, apparently helping Peeta inventory the bread sold for the day.

I know I shouldn't listen in to their private conversations, but I can't help it if I happen to be in close proximity and hear them speak. "You know, the girl almost took my head off with a broken bottle yesterday," our old mentor says lightly as he eyes the whole grains.

"If I heard it right, you called her a name," Peeta corrects absentmindedly, staring down at a sheet of paper. "And swiped at her with your knife."

"She doesn't exactly wake me up gently," Haymitch retorts. "She's about as subtle as the sound of you coming down the stairs."

Peeta rolls his eyes now. "Waking you up at four in the afternoon isn't her job. Just be happy she decides to check on you at all."

At that, the grumpy man looks disgruntled. "She's a caustic little thing."

"She's you made over," Peeta states blankly as fact. Not exactly a high compliment, probably in both mine and Haymitch's eyes, but I suppose it's true, all the same. Peeta said as much in our first games, at least. At least this is something consistent with his memory.

But Haymitch isn't over acting childish and has to throw out one last line of defense. "You know, she told me she'd take my knife and cut my throat if I swung at her again?"

Peeta chuckles then and catches me entirely off-guard with his words. "That's my girl," he murmurs affectionately.

Instantly, I feel my heart skip a beat, both from the sentiment in itself and the pride shining in his eyes.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling but the effort is futile and I realize in the back of my mind, it'd be better to sneak out and wait for Peeta to come home than be caught now, pink cheeked and eavesdropping.

As I slip out the back bakery door, I hear Haymitch say, "you better learn to shut the windows when you finally deflower the girl."

I don't stick around more than a few seconds after that, but I instinctively know Peeta now has a blush as deep as mine.

/

Three days later.

"Hello," I greet amicably, leaning up to kiss Peeta's cheek as I pass by his position at the counter.

"Hi," he says back, putting down the paintbrush he was just wiping clean with an old towel. His tone though, is less pleasant and more strained than mine. "Why're you bleeding?"

I give him a noncommittal shrug. "I fell." Out of a tree, I don't voice out loud. While waiting for some game to come by, that I could get the right angle on. Typically climbing up onto a branch on a slow hunting day gives me a better vantage point and the upperhand against deer, but today was not one of my typical days.

Today the woods were so empty, so void of potential meat, that I made the mistake of settling in on my perch. After an hour of just sitting in a tree, just myself, my arrows and a warm breeze, my lids were heavy and my balance was a goner.

I consider it a small success that I only hit my shoulder, not my neck or head on the fall down, but one glance at Peeta's face and I doubt he'll share my enthusiasm.

"I'm fine," I say after a moment of silence, with his blue eyes just mulled over in concern.

"Can I see it?" He asks gently, reaching for the back of my blue t-shirt.

I nod somewhat unwilling, not wanting to trigger his flashbacks today with sight of blood. But I also know that by refusing, I'm drawing out more of his anxiety.

He carefully lifts my shirt and peers at my scraped shoulder blade. I hear a sharp intake of breath before he covers me back up again.

"Can I bandage it?" He softly requests.

I spin around on my heels and wrap my arms around his neck loosely. "I'm fine," I promise. "I've had much worse than a scrap."

He chuckles darkly at that. "I know," is all he says in reply but his fingers slowly creep along my neck and I know instinctively where his mind went.

If letting him take care of my shoulder takes his mind off something that was so completely out of his control, then I decide to humor him.

"Come on," I begrudgingly murmur, pulling him by the hand towards the living room.

Peeta is very diligent about caring for my injury. He gathers an herbal cream my mother left before she went back to Four and a disinfectant, along with a rectangular, sticky bandage.

I turn my back to face him on the couch as soon as he seems ready, but he takes me completely by surprise—as he often times does—and tugs me to lay my upper body in his lap.

"Does this feel okay?" He asks, his voice quiet and kind. I can see in his still worried eyes that he's doing his best not to be affected at the sight of blood.

Thankfully, up until now we've had very little experience with the red, sticky liquid since returning to Twelve. Since growing closer.

It was a small blessing I didn't realize before, that the fire burned my skin in a few places but led to little actual gushing blood.

I try to lighten his mood a little, hoping if I can lift his spirits, he won't be triggered into a difficult evening and consequently, a night of insomnia.

"Of course it feels okay," I say, chuckling. "I lay with you all the time. If I didn't like it, I'd sleep somewhere else."

My efforts work but not for the reason I intended. "I was asking if I was hurting your shoulder, genius."

"Oh."

He stifles a laugh then too, but abruptly quits when he pulls the back of my shirt up again, coming face to face with the bleeding scrape.

"How high up were you in the tree?" He asks, his voice a little breathless now at the sight.

"I never said I was in a tree."

"Yeah, and I suppose you tripped on a branch and did this."

I roll my eyes before realizing he can't see it. I'm starting to shift my neck to the opposite direction, to turn and look at him, only to suddenly be overcome with a horrible stinging sensation at the source of the injury.

I wince audibly, letting out a small cry. In response, Peeta massages the back of my head lightly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's just cleaning the wound."

I clutch the top of his prosthetic until the hurt dissipates. Peeta is still petting my hair back gently when it does. "Katniss?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I..." He hesitates for half a beat, before his fingers trail to the middle of my back. "Um..."

I realize with a start what he's asking when his fingers slip underneath my bra clasp.

Right. Of course my bra is on the way when trying to tend to my shoulder.

Trying to be as casual as I can, I murmur, "go for it."

I don't know why I feel suddenly more naked as soon as he—a little too expertly, in my opinion—unhooks my old, worn out bra and pulls the strap down one of my arms, trying to keep away from the wound.

Peeta has seen me in a bra before. When we sat in the backyard because the house was as warm as a furnace. When he rubbed the ointment on my scars.

But him unlatching the article in itself elicited a far different reaction and I suddenly feel my cheeks warm inexplicably.

His hand grazes my arm then and I jump practically a mile at the contact, feeling my skin prickle with gooseflesh.

Peeta tenderly rubs the medicinal cream into my bare shoulder, until the pain I felt only moments ago becomes pleasure at the massage.

His hand travels lower, rubbing the bottom center of my back for some reason. Some reason I refuse to question, the sensation too nice to risk spoiling.

He doesn't rub me long though. Instead, he carefully places the white sticky bandage over my shoulder blade and seals the wound with a soft kiss.

And I can't hold myself back anymore. The feeling of being cared for, of being pampered is still so new to me and yet, when it comes to Peeta, feels so completely natural. It feels so easy with him, in a way that felt so difficult with everyone else.

I roll over roughly and in one hurried movement, throw myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck and covering his lips with my own.

He returns the kiss enthusiastically, but slows it down a little, taking the rushed offering I have for him and making it a tender, sweet exchange. A tender, sweet caress of the tongue, that is.

His mouth moves from mine after a long moment, moving up to my cheek, traveling to the side of my face easily. As his lips travel down my neck, I lean forward, letting him pull me in closer so I'm fully straddling his lap. My mouth trails downwards as well, imitating his pathway, and letting my lips hungrily explore his pulse point, kissing where I can feel the beat of his heart under my lips.

His hand trails up the back of my shirt again and rubs my skin there absently, like it's just a natural impulse, like it's not one he has to think about.

When his hands travel around front though and run across my stomach, it's me that suddenly breaks away.

I lean back, languidly, sitting on the edge of his knees now. His hands don't move from their place, and I shiver as I feel his thumb stroke my stomach.

I open my mouth to say something, to offer some kind of sentiment, some kind of words of rationale. Like I don't think we should do this. Like I don't know why but I have a mental block when it comes to how far the physical intimacy can go before I meltdown with anxiety.

But as I turn my eyes up and meet his baby blues, his sincere, kind, longing gaze, different words suddenly come to mind.

Different words suddenly form on the tip of my tongue and I have to bite my lip physically to stop myself from blurting them out loud.

Three words suddenly form on the tip of my tongue.

Never a talented actress, all I can come up with to defer the attention away from my feelings, before they come unexpectedly pouring out is, "I'll help you clean your paintbrushes."

Peeta watches me, both taken aback and slightly amused as I clumsily slide off his lap and walk nonchalantly towards the kitchen again.

"Do you want to re-hook-"

"I'm going to start without you," I call. My cheeks are still pink as I grab a dirty brush from the glass jar sitting on the counter.

"Okay," he concedes after a moment, and chuckles lightly, quickly coming to join me at the sink.

And take me by surprise again evidently. He eagerly wraps his arms around me from behind, tugging me backwards and into his embrace.

His lips press another heartfelt kiss to the side of my head, lingering there and I can't control the wide grin that overtakes my entire face.

And the same three words are, once again, sitting right on the tip of my tongue.

/

Four days later.

"Am I doing this right?" Peeta asks, diving his head back beneath the water.

I snort and kick my foot, splashing a wave directly into his face just when his head breaks the surface again. "You're doing the most basic stroke, Peeta. You can't do it wrong."

The bakery has become more and more successful, as of late. People are still traveling from surrounding districts to see the new, rebuilt structure. Peeta is now baking twice as much and getting to experiment with new ideas and new recipes, the way he always wanted as a kid. The way his mother always said no to, not having the money or ingredients to waste.

I'm happy for him that his business is now reaching new heights. I'm extremely proud of him for how hard he's been working to keep up with it all.

I also have missed him an exorbitant amount, as his hours have doubled for the foreseeable future.

I help out occasionally, with the front of the shop portion of the business. I'm not baker but I can wrap up a loaf of bread or pastry and stick it in a box. I can take money and force a—probably obvious—disingenuous smile and murmur to come again.

But after the shop actually closes for the day and Peeta has to start prepping for tomorrow, I know I'm just in his way. The way he must have felt in our first arena, when I was trying to hunt and his heavy footsteps scared all the potential meals away.

Peeta must know though that I miss spending time together, because for some inexplicable reason, he chose to close the shop today with no explanation and requested we go to the lake.

His excuse was he needed to practice his swimming. Because it was such a useful skill in his day to day life.

Still, I didn't call the bluff out. I was just excited at the prospect of me and him together, without buzzing customers, well-meaning friends and Haymitch, all crowding in on us. Lately, outside of our slumber at night, that has been hard to come by.

Peeta wipes the water from his eyes now, his gaze narrowing playfully, zeroing in on my position. I'm still casually just sitting on the edge of the water, watching him swim laps back and forth.

"Did you just splash me?" He taunts, sauntering closer to me through the cool, clear water.

"Wasn't me," I say innocently, keeping my face in a soft smirk until his wet hands find my waist, hoisting me into his arms and dunking me below the surface now with him.

When we both resurface, he's laughing to himself, blatantly full of pride. "That was rude," I murmur, trying to keep my voice serious.

"I'm sorry, that was unkind, wasn't it?" He agrees, but remains smiling proudly and I kick away from him, keeping up the pretense of irritation. "Hey, who said you could go away?"

"Me," I say with emphasis on the single word.

"Come back," he complains, paddling faster to catch up, grasping my waist with his large, warm hands and spinning me around in his arms. "I'm sorry," he whispers, more contrite this time, though it still rings false, just the same. "Did I hurt you when we went underwater?"

I scoff at the ridiculous inquiry and his ridiculous tone. "No. Why? Did I hurt you when I splashed your face?"

He gives me the more pronounced pout. "Yes," he confirms, pointing to his left eye. "Right here."

I roll my eyes. "You're such a child sometimes." At that, his lip juts out further and his arms tighten around my waist. Sighing a little, playing up my exasperation, I lean in slowly and place a soft kiss on his left lid. "Does that make it better?"

"Feels good as new," he murmurs cheekily. "See, told you you're a healer."

"Ha-ha," I mock.

"You heal me," he says now, a layer of seriousness slipping in. "You always make me feel better."

My gaze simultaneously softens as sincerity fills his blue eyes, while my mouth acts to its own accord. I lean in and kiss his cheek, his jaw, moving slowly to the corner of his lips.

His smile turns up even further, and when I pull back an inch, teasing him a little, he gives up on patience and moves his mouth onto mine.

The kiss is heated and sweet and passionate, all at the same time. His lips dance against mine, pecking at first and then his tongue finds its way into my mouth and I moan unexpectedly.

He doesn't comment on the noise, if he even caught it. Instead, one of his hands stays beneath me, holding onto my legs that are still wrapped around his waist. His other hand roams my back freely, moving to massage my shoulder, down my arm, over my side.

I move my lips to his jaw, trailing to his chin and neck, before gasping for air. I didn't break the kiss soon enough, desiring for it to keep going, the sensation only getting better and better every time.

As a result though, I'm a little dizzy and move to rest my cheek against his shoulder until I can catch my breath.

His arms shift again, to hold me closer against him, to support all of my weight. And just as I crave it, Peeta begins to kiss my cheek, my temple, my ear. He sucks lightly on my earlobe, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of it.

And his words from so long ago—or it feels like so long, at least—come tumbling back to me.

"I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever."

This is as close as I've ever been to feeling that way. This moment right here is as close as I have ever been to losing control of my words, of my thoughts, of my impulses and fears and desires.

My hand lazily strokes his cheek as his mouth begins to focus on my neck now, kissing my pulse point, kissing where my throat becomes my shoulder.

And I realize then, that for once in my life, I'm not thinking of Prim, or my mom or the games. I'm not thinking of the pain of losing the one person I wasn't afraid to love, of the crippling fear that still haunts every major move I make, of the horrible things I see at night when I don't have Peeta's arms there to keep them away.

For once in my life, for maybe the first time in my life, all I'm thinking about is right here, right now, and how warm and cherished and safe I feel.

Something twinges in my stomach then, and I realize Peeta has reached the end of his course. He's kissed everywhere he possibly can, without entering foreign territory. Without crossing a line we've never crossed.

And suddenly, without a doubt, it hits me that I want him to. I abruptly want him to step over the boundary we've somehow set for ourselves and I want him to go further.

I'm not ready for everything yet, and I still have enough self-preservation to stop my lips from saying what they're begging to, but I know, beyond everything else, that I can trust Peeta. I know he'll always respect my feelings and never push me to go further than I'm ready.

And I know in this moment, that I'm ready for more.

Leaning up, my body still pressed against his, I press a light kiss to his cheek and grab one of his hands gently.

"What're you doing?" He murmurs, smiling curiously, a little confused.

But I don't reply. Instead I move his hand to the back of my bathing suit, placing it on the tie, my gaze finding his.

His baby blues shift from puzzlement to apprehension. "Are you sure?"

I nod confidently, knowing he won't take my words the wrong way, knowing he won't think I mean all the way, and he tugs the strings loose.

As soon as my top is discarded to the grass, his mouth moves back onto mine, pressing firmly, his tongue finding residence between my lips once more. I feel his hand begin to trail upwards, towards my chest, but it's only when he pulls his mouth away and whispers in my ear that my attention is diverted.

"I love you, Katniss. So much."

I let out an embarrassing, girlish sound. "I know."

He chuckles at the breathless words, giving my eyes one last warm glance, before moving his head lower, letting his mouth explore new surface and territories.

I realize then, as my legs go to jelly beneath me, that he's probably going to have to carry me home.

/

Five days later.

He did carry me home that night. Not for the reason I thought. I was just too tired and hadn't eaten enough throughout the day—too focused on teaching Peeta to swim and then playing in the lake myself—and when it came time to head back, the one who smartly ate his body weight for breakfast gave me a lift.

But after that day at the lake, something inside me shifted. It was like there was something unacknowledged between us, like there was something urgent we had yet to discuss.

And it was one-sided apparently, because Peeta acted no different. It was solely me who felt bizarre when he entered a room, when he touched my back innocently, when he laid his head on my chest when we cuddled on the couch before bed.

He still kisses me in the mornings like he always does before work, he still hugs me when I sneak up on him in the bakery during his lunch break, he still breathes in the scent of pine from my hair after I went to the woods, he still buries his face in my neck when he finds me waiting up for him to come home at night.

Whatever now was happening was happening only in my mind.

Today wasn't the day to rectify it either. Despite the fact that Peeta had let Kanon and Thom and Leevy handle the bakery alone today—their gift to Peeta, for being a wonderful and caring boss—we still had work to do.

I had told Haymitch last night, while the two of us ate deer meat and black bean soup with Peeta's fresh rolls for dinner, that the memory book was all but done.

He had already contributed weeks ago. Haymitch had added every single tribute, from the beginning of his time as a mentor, from his own games, to the book already. He'd added his mother, Corentine and his little brother, Alastair.

But it turns out there was someone else he couldn't go without entering.

He'd actually woken us up this morning, which was a complete and utter anomaly. Haymitch slept until noon on his earliest of days, and three or four on his regular ones.

When he woke me and Peeta up at the crack of dawn, after I unclawed my nails from Peeta's arm and he relaxed the hand squeezing my thigh, I realized without much effort he probably hadn't even gone to sleep last night.

But when Peeta barked uncharacteristically—his torture in the Capitol made him more irritable, and much more fearful of people waking him unexpectedly—at him for storming into our house like a madman, the older man just turned to look at me and I knew, through his desperate, hardened grey eyes, this was a serious request for him.

Peeta softened too, when we situated at the table and our old mentor pulled out a worn and torn, but somewhat intact photo from his pocket.

Along with an entire bottle of booze.

I opened my mouth to ask why he brought that, as despite his affinity for alcohol, he never drank when we worked on the memory book, a silent promise to do everything to clearly remember those who passed from our lives. But he just cut me off before I even spoke.

"It's just case, sweetheart."

"In case of what?" I ask quietly, feeling more and more concerned for him by the second.

Yes, at times he's intolerable, but he's my family. He's a permanent fixture in my life, after everything we've been through. That's absolutely irrefutable.

Instead of answering my nervous question though, Haymitch just points to the photograph he'd laid upon the table.

Peeta and I peer over, our faces inches from one another, to get a better look at the girl in the picture.

She's beautiful, is my very first thought. Clearly from the Seam. She has the olive skin, the dark hair and the grey eyes. Her lips are full and her brows are naturally arched and I wonder, for a moment, why my mentor has a photo of someone so stunning.

He gruffly murmurs the answer at the same time I realize it myself. "That's Alannah. My girl, Alannah."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of that stunt I pulled with the force field."

I realize in this moment that Peeta potentially never heard this story, never knew Haymitch had a girlfriend back home when he went off to the games, never knew that everyone he loved was murdered because of his act of rebellion.

It never came up when we did the entries for his mother and brother. Peeta must have assumed, naturally, that they died at some point a long time ago and it's not like the entries are detailing the circumstances of their deaths.

But somehow, maybe because he's a better actor than I could ever dream of being, he keeps a blank face and murmurs quietly, "Alannah?"

Haymitch gives the room a customary glance. "Is Sae here today?"

I wrinkle my brow at him, confused. Greasy Sae rarely stops by my house anymore to clean or cook. Rather, she checks in on both me and Peeta at the bakery or while I'm trading at the new Hob. Sometimes if I've had a bad night she'll start pressing me, but for the most part, as long as we seem fine, she keeps her nose in her own troubles.

"No," I say, growing more and more antsy. "Why?"

He shrugs. "Never can be too sure," he mumbles after a long moment and I have no idea what that means but choose to let it go.

Peeta pulls the photograph closer to him, gathering the memory book and his art utensils. "She's beautiful, Haymitch," he murmurs softly, like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. Like he, the person who's talent is words and speeches, could ever say the wrong thing.

No, that's my job.

To my surprise, and maybe relief, since it's a familiar sound, Haymitch snorts. "She looks like Katniss. Of course you think she's beautiful, kid."

I don't know what took me off guard more. My name being used in a sentence by him or that he just gave me what might be the highest compliment he ever has.

I glance at the picture again, the picture that has to have lasted the last twenty five years at minimum to be in my house today. And I do see a slight resemblance. The same level of resemblance as there was between Gale and I. Which was enough to pass for cousins, at one point in time.

He tempers the compliment a little, right as I sit back. "Well, if Katniss was prettier, that is."

I don't react to the dig, still waiting for him to really start speaking, to get us whatever details he can remember after a blurry quarter century of death, violence and substance abuse, on top of a war and the aftermath.

I guess I expected him to say a fair amount about this Alannah, as she was important enough in his life that Snow knew about her, knew her death would break the then surly, arrogant eighteen-year-old victor.

But I didn't realize the sheer amount of information that was locked away in his brain. I didn't realize that after all these years, Haymitch could retain any memory of someone long passed, with absolute perfect clarity.

He told us how they spoke for the first time when the district school took their classes to the mines. She was two years younger than him and older kids were supposed to buddy up with a younger one, to guide them along the walk.

She was seven and he was nine. She was small for her age and when they were partnered up, he thought she'd be timid and shy.

Instead she dragged him along behind her. She talked more than the teacher did, she gave him clear directions to the mines and she fearlessly volunteered them to take the first elevator ride down underground.

"She was fearless," Haymitch murmurs, staring at the wall with a hollowness to his gaze now. "She was absolutely fearless."

For the next five years, Alannah remained a constant in his life. She stopped by his house with excess food and small trades her mother didn't need—a passing detail that's underlying meaning suddenly twists my gut—and would walk to town with him and Alastair occasionally. She was spirited and outgoing and a know-it-all, and at the age of twelve and fourteen, it became clear they were what the other needed.

"That's young," I say, a little shaken up by this newfound perspective on my mentor.

Haymitch chuckles darkly, eyeing the liquor bottle, still on the table. "Alannah knew what she wanted, always, and never waivered from it."

He continues after that, detailing their first kiss at the slag heap, telling us how close she was to his family, how she was confident and reliable and smart.

"She was so smart."

She used to keep him in line, always remembering what he had to do, always reminding him to be on time, always chewing him out for his blatant rudeness.

I don't say it, but a small part of me curiously wonders if Haymitch didn't abuse himself, didn't act up or behave atrociously, specifically because she was gone. Because without her to keep him in line, there was no point in acting civilized.

Just when I thought he was wrapping up though, he launches into more details.

Alannah loved cherries, when she could get them. She disliked a lot of the meat one from the Seam has to survive on. She was the first one he ever got drunk with. She had perfect attendance at school but rarely took class seriously. She knew the importance of learning skills to survive, of helping those who were in need, of be useful and loyal and kind.

"She was well-liked among the Seam kids," Haymitch says after a momentary pause. "And certain merchants too."

I nod, waiting for more when his gaze flips onto me, his eyes flitting away again, as if contemplating the risk of saying something.

I suppose the risk was worth it, as he decides to share his thoughts. "Alannah knew your parents, sweetheart. Your father more than your mother but... she knew them both to a degree."

I just peer at him, blankly, as this newfound information seeps it's way into my brain, trying my best to reconcile it with what I already know about my parents and their childhoods.

It doesn't really connect, I think after a moment. My father would have been too old to know this girl and my mother was a merchant. I suppose she married someone from the Seam, so it wouldn't be too far-fetched that she'd befriend someone from there as well, but picturing it is difficult. She was friends with the two richest sisters in Twelve. She was one of the wealthiest residents of the district. How did she know Alannah, from the Seam?

Then again, it's not like I've ever really asked about her childhood. About much of her early life at all. Knowing how little it can take to cause a full meltdown for her, having witnessed it even before my father's death, the idea of pressing her for details of deceased friends seems as smart as leaving me alone in the bakery again.

Haymitch continues, like speaking of this girl caused a fire to burn inside of him and now he can't put it out.

He tells us how she loved her sisters and her mother—a detail that, once again, makes my heart ache—and how she would constantly talk about getting rich one day, becoming richer than the merchants, richer than the mayor. She believed in herself, in a way so rare for the Seam.

So rare for anyone in Twelve, I correct myself, eyeing the boy to my right. The boy who was so dispirited when he first boarded that train to the Capitol, who believed he had zero shot of winning our first games, who focused more on having an honorable, honest death than a strategy to live.

Haymitch keeps going, as if in a trance now, as if possessed by the memory of this long, dead girl he so clearly loved. She'd made him promise he'd come home to her, when he was reaped. She'd made him swear that he would fight, that he wouldn't leave her alone. She'd made him promise when he returned, they'd toast and move in together, in his new house in Victor's Village.

His voice trails off then, and I see his eyes get glassy. It's not until I hear Peeta's audible gulp that I look away, offering our mentor some privacy.

His next words are far uglier, far more gruesome than I anticipate and I push away the memory book, where'd I'd been writing down everything he'd described. There was no need for those descriptions on Alannah's page.

"Two weeks after I was crowned, I came home. I was greeted at the station by my mother and Alastair. And Alannah. She was there. But she had a haunted look in her eyes and when she hugged me, it didn't feel right. I told myself I'd talk to her about it later, when we could be alone..." His grey eyes find the alcohol again and I almost tell him to just go for it. After this story, I want a drink as well.

Peeta's hand finds mine under the table suddenly and I gently squeeze his palm, as a terrible thought runs through my mind.

What if they had killed Peeta, after our first games? What if Snow decided to off the other victor, the one some claimed only won because of me? What if I'd woken up one day to find him dead somehow?

What if Snow had decided to kill him instead of hijacking him?

Where would I be now? What would I have become?

It's almost funny to realize, how much Snow underestimated Peeta and me. How he didn't realize Peeta would find his way back to who he truly is, how he didn't realize how far I'd go to avenge all those he caused pain and agony, how he didn't realize the depth of the connection between Peeta and I. That we weren't just victors who tolerated each other, that we weren't just district partners who became friends. That there was an inexplicable pull between us that none of his games could sever.

Haymitch brings me out of my head abruptly. "I found her in my bed later that night. Her body was drained of blood. Her eyes were wide open. She was laying under the blankets and... and I thought at first she was asleep." He takes a long pause and Peeta's hand tightens around mine. "The wall behind her was smeared with her blood. All of it. It painted the entire wall, floor to ceiling."

At that, he stands up roughly, the chair scratching the wood floor. "I'm done," he murmurs caustically, as if we forced him into admitting all this. His footfalls are loud as he rushes through the front door.

But I can't just let him storm out without another word. Not after everything he just trusted us with. Not after everything I just heard.

"Haymitch," I yell, dropping Peeta's hand and chasing after him.

I catch him as he's climbing down the steps from my porch. "What do you want?" He snaps, turning back at me with an anger splayed across his face now.

And I don't know what possesses me to do it, but I find myself running down the small set of stairs and tossing my arms around his neck, locking him in a tight hug.

To my utter shock, he doesn't pull away. Instead, maybe somewhat begrudgingly, he gives into the embrace, wrapping his arms around me too.

I feel a wetness touch my shoulder and vow to check on him again in a few hours. Maybe even periodically over the next few days. There's no telling how much alcohol he has in his supply, as the train just came from the Capitol yesterday, and I have little faith in his restraint or senses right now.

He pulls back after a long moment, kissing my forehead lightly, before sighing and nodding towards my house. "Get back inside, girl. It's freezing out here and I'm not going to deal with the boy freaking out if you get sick."

I roll my eyes at his irritated tone, knowing his game at this point. "Okay, Haymitch," I chuckle lightly, moving towards my home again.

"I'm serious, sweetheart. You don't have a spleen anymore, you're gonna get pneumonia easier than the rest of us-"

"I heard you," I call as I reach my front door, turning back to watch him cross the threshold to his own residence.

And I wonder in the back of my mind, what would have been if Snow hadn't murdered his family. If Snow had let his love live. If Alannah had been there to help Haymitch navigate through the hard parts, kept him in line when he lost control, gave him some sliver of hope in life itself.

And I'm struck with disgust for the cruelty in this world, for the sheer unfairness in life itself, as I walk back into the kitchen.

Peeta is there, still in his pajamas, just like me, washing a dish he barely even touched.

I suppose my eyes must give away how I feel, because as soon as he looks up, he opens his arms for me.

I don't hesitate to embrace him, walking straight into his proffered hold. I bury my face in his chest, reveling in the feeling of his lips pressing against my hair over and over again.

"I can't believe we never knew about her," I murmur eventually, after staying in his arms for who knows how long.

Peeta's hand rubs my back in circles. "How could we have though? It's not like anyone wants to talk about a murder like that."

I shrug, knowing he's right but still feeling bitter for some reason. Still feeling angry at the injustice of it all.

Peeta kisses my forehead now and then tips my chin up to press our lips together lightly. "I'm going to check on Haymitch in a few hours. Bring him something to eat for when he's hungry." I nod agreeably at his words, still too upset to speak much. "I can make you something too, if you want?" He offers.

But I shake my head, moving to stand on my tiptoes and kiss his nose gently. "No thank you," I whisper softly, before moving my mouth to his shoulder and kissing him there too.

He rubs my back one more time before untangling himself from me, moving around me to finish clearing the table.

My gaze gets caught in the window to the backyard now, seeing the primroses blowing lightly in the breeze, watching as the sun beats down on the blades of grass. Wondering how such a beautiful world can be so inhumane.

But something else, another observation, is still on my mind and won't leave until I vent it out.

"He remembered so much," I murmur incredulously as he returns with the plate I ate a burnt slice of toast off of, placing it in the sink. "It's been twenty five years. He still has a photograph of her, in tact. Nothing in his house survives a week and somehow this picture survives a quarter century?" Peeta has stopped moving, and is now just standing against the counter, waiting for me to be talked out. "He remembers so much about her," I say again in disbelief, like I cannot fathom it. Because I can't. It seems too far fetched that Haymitch could retain this complete inventory of knowledge about anyone, even the love of his life, after everything that came after.

The way he spoke of her, so fluently, like he didn't have to reach far for a single detail, like it was all just fresh in his mind, even now. Like Alannah was still as close to him as his own heartbeat.

My father used to tell me that's what love is. Knowing someone so well that they're a part of you.

Even if that part was severed off violently long ago.

Peeta still is waiting for me to speak again, but there's nothing else I can think to say. Nothing that could be of any matter.

Lamely, I repeat again, "how can he remember so much about someone who's been dead for twenty five years?"

As per usual, his reaction takes me by surprise. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, his eyes thoughtful. His fingers caress my cheek for a moment before he shrugs simply.

"I would, if it were you."

/

On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself.

What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.

/

Two days later.

"Katniss?" Peeta whispers, unexpectedly into the night.

"What's wrong?"

The sky was dark, as was our room, and it was well past four in the morning. I thought Peeta fell asleep hours ago.

"You have to work in an hour," I murmur sleepily, thankful—and not for the first time—that I get to choose whenever I want to hunt nowadays, and am not depended on by much of the district for their daily grains. I can choose to skip the woods for a day if I so wish.

"I know," he replies soothingly, scooting closer to me beneath the covers.

I had been asleep myself not long ago. Only the pressure of my bladder woke me and since then sleep has decided to evade me completely.

Only making it that much harder for me to drift off again, Peeta's hand comes to rest upon my arm. "Do you think I should offer Kanon a raise?"

That catches my attention somehow, startles me to clearer conscious. "Why?"

Kanon is good worker, sure, and a friend, but Peeta does so much of the heavy lifting when it comes to running the business, from the baking itself, to the marketing, the shop's upkeep, the cash income and the technical forms for the district. It makes little sense to give out raises when you're doing majority of the work yourself.

He takes me out of my tired thoughts. "Because he doesn't have a lot. Kanon is still struggling, and now with Thom there to help too, I don't need him to work as many hours. I just thought I could give him more, maybe? So he doesn't lose money?"

I roll around to face him, my brows furrowed. "Why are you asking me?" I murmur curiously, peering up at him through the blackness of the room. "I mean, I think it's a nice idea." I think it's more than a nice idea. I think it encapsulates who Peeta is as a person, at his core, but I'm not coherent enough to articulate that. "But I don't get why you're asking me? It's your bakery."

I mean, I suppose I understand the confusion. Many people in Twelve think I'm part owner somehow, mistakenly taking my constant presence as authority rather than me giving into my longing to see the true owner of the shop.

It also doesn't help that Val and Thom have taken to—teasingly—calling me boss whenever I show up.

Haymitch claims it's less of a compliment or a joke, and more of a nod to my pushy, controlling nature.

Peeta moves his hand to gently brush back the hair that's maneuvered itself into my eyes. "I know but... it's kind of your bakery now too. At least, in my eyes."

His words take me by surprise. It's my bakery now too? Since when did this happen?

But, as soon as I internally ask myself the question, the answer becomes clear.

It's happened over time. It's happened so gradually, maybe from the moment Peeta even decided to rebuild the structure after the war—and before I burned it down again—that I barely even registered it.

When he trusted me with the key to the back entrance, when I did the sale's transactions on Harvest Day, when I automatically took his place the day he wasn't well enough to go into work. The same day I managed to decimate his place of work.

And it shouldn't make me as warm inside as it does, as the thought strikes me abruptly, that I'm considered partial owner of the same place I used to not even be allowed through the front door. The same bakery that Prim would stare in through the window, her mouth hanging open as she admired the frosted cakes. The same bakery I used to only be able to fantasize about the luxury of working in, of being surrounded by heat in the winter, by the smell of bread, by the absolute guarantee of food in your stomach.

Still though, I have to protest. "Peeta, it's your bakery. Not mine. I'm not a Mellark." For some reason, I almost feel myself begin to blush at my words, like the statement meant more than it was intended to.

He doesn't seem to notice. "Doesn't matter to me what your last name is. I consider it a little yours and since it's in my name..." He stops there, shrugging nonchalantly. "But the money aspect does concern you. I don't want to take money away from you and give it to someone else, unless you're on board. No matter how close of a friend Kanon may be."

He kind of has a point there, I realize. We aren't careful about dividing up who's money is who's and, in the end, we do essentially share funds at this point.

But we're both still so overcome with the riches we gained as victors. All the money given to us before the war is still in our custody now and it only makes sense that we share some of it. With the bakery employees, with the children of the community home, with our family and friends.

"I think giving Kanon a raise sounds like a great idea," I murmur genuinely after a long moment.

Peeta smiles at me then and presses a kiss to my temple. "You can go back to sleep. Sorry for bothering you, it was just weighing on me," he explain, looking a little remorseful now.

But I shake my head, no longer feeling tired. Knowing now there's no way I'm falling back unconscious.

Because now something is weighing on me. Something is weighing deeply on my mind and I'm not going to be able to stifle it down for once.

He's so kind. I'm struck suddenly by how kind he truly is. By how good and sweet and compassionate he really is, at the core of his being.

It's a facet of him that nothing and no one, not Snow or the tracker jacker venom, not the games or the war, not anything, could ever steal away. Peeta was kind at the deepest layer and something about that notion unexpectedly kneecaps me.

"Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there."

I don't know what comes first, my rolling over until I'm directly on top of Peeta, my lips messily searching through the ebony of the night to find his or my heart suddenly thudding in my ears, momentarily deafening me.

I don't care. I barely even notice. When Peeta responds in kind, not even surprised at this point by my physical ambush on his mouth, all I can do is moan and kiss him harder, trying to work my tongue between his lips.

Something rises up inside me then, inside my chest, spilling out into every tip of my being. Every inch of me is suddenly on fire and I realize, distantly somehow, that I'm starving. I'm absolutely famished.

Not for food though. Not for that kind of substance.

No, I'm hungry in an entirely different way. A way that feels familiar, as it's been building up for a long while now, but only ever compares to one exact prior occurrence.

The hunger I felt on the beach, when I believed I wouldn't live through the night.

The hunger that was absolutely insatiable, the kisses that I wouldn't even let myself think about while he was in the Capitol and then after, hijacked. The knowledge that I don't have the willpower to stop once the fire inside me is ignited, and now there is no Finnick to stop us and no imminent death looming around, and it's just me and it's just him, and in bed, at this exact moment, I realize suddenly, like it's blatantly obvious, like it's a known fact already, that is it. This is all I want for the rest of my life.

That no matter what occurred, or what else could have gone differently, this here, me and Peeta, would have happened anyway. That Peeta was always the one I was destined to find, someway, somehow.

His eyes open when the kiss doesn't break off, when my lips continue, more and more desperately, to seek his, to fulfill an insurmountable desire, that I never realize was buried so deep inside me.

"Katniss," he whispers, out of breath, when I move my mouth down his neck, onto his shoulder. He rolls me slightly, so I'm lying by his side and no longer straddling his waist. "Are you sure?"

He seems to recognize by my demeanor where this is heading. Where I intend to take this.

And he's stopping the want—the need—I know he's had for a long time, to ask if I'm certain. To give me one more chance to reconsider.

"I've never been so sure," I murmur huskily against his chest, my eyes closed, almost ridiculously excited for what's to come.

I don't have to say it twice. Peeta's hand goes to my hair then and he's caressing it, and then he's caressing me, touching me, gently moving his hand and then his lips in a beautiful orchestration, in complete synchrony, every so often whispering sweet words or loving phrases against my skin.

When his mouth finds mine again and we begin to move as one, I wonder what took me so long. I wonder why I didn't let this happen from the start.

As he kisses me deeply though, I find comfort in the fact that I'll never have to wonder again.

/

So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."

/

When I wake up, I'm sore. I'm so incredibly sore, in a place I've never once felt pain before.

After our intimacy last night, after I whispered real to his inquiry, to the question he already knew the answer to, Peeta had taken great care of me. In ways I never would have even expected. In ways I never began to imagine I'd allow.

His lips brushed my eyelids, my exhausted, heavy eyes, and then my nose, as soft as he moves a paintbrush against a canvas. He pressed kisses to my cheek and then the side of my neck, moving directly down onto my chest. He held me closer, and I realized as my languid hand ran through his now messy, blonde curls, that he was crying. That tears were running down his face.

Tears of happiness, I realized. Tears of relief and of release and of utter astonishment. Because there was a part of him that never thought we'd get here. That never really believed me and him would ever be as close as we are now.

That I'd never say I love you to him.

I realized just as he'd whispered the question, that I had loved him for a long time. For longer than I even allowed myself to register. For longer than he probably even knows.

I kissed his tears away and started to snuggle against his chest, our bare skin pressed up against one another for the first time, completely exposed and cherished in one another's embrace, when he slowly kissed my forehead and then slid out of bed.

My eyes had snapped open in fear, in shock, watching him walk naked from the room and down the hall, to the bathroom.

To get ready for work, I realized.

I felt hurt for some inexplicable reason. That after what we'd just did, he was going to the bakery, he was going on as if it were just an ordinary day.

I heard water running and I intended to get up and dress, to prove I wasn't waiting for him, but before I could, Peeta came waltzing back into the room, carrying a bowl of water.

"Lay back," he had instructed, in a gentle voice, setting the water on the nightstand by my head.

Realizing, as soon as he pulled the blankets back, what he was doing, I felt my cheeks turn red.

"Peeta, you don't have to," I started, my voice more nervous and bashful than it had been when we actually were in the act.

His words though, are the same as they were the night I burned down the bakery. "Let me take care of you," he softly implores, and then he dips a small cloth into the water and gently caresses my legs, until I willingly relax them, letting him bathe me tenderly.

He took extreme care to be sensitive to any pain, working slowly and soothingly, until I was free of any speck of blood. He gently leaned down to kiss my chin and then mouth as he discarded the soiled cloth back into the bowl.

"Come back to bed," I whispered, my voice an unrecognizable plead.

He didn't even hesitate, slowly walking around to his side and slipping beneath the blankets once more. His arms found me instantly, wrapping me back up in his protective embrace, kissing my temple affectionately. "I love you, Katniss," he murmured against my face, kissing me again. "You're everything to me."

I realize now in this moment, as I slowly shift myself out of Peeta's sweet cuddle, that I left a bloodstain on the bedsheets. For a split second, I revel between guilt and embarrassment, before realizing the acts committed only hours ago make the mark pale in comparison.

I glance back, as I grab a pale shirt—his sleep shirt—from the floor and take one last look at Peeta's sleeping form. So warm and content and peaceful. So innocent and kind and my heart does a hard thud unexpectedly at the very sight.

But as I walk down the stairs, remaining as quiet as I am in the woods, and I feel a twisting in my stomach, as the aftermath of the last few hours sinks in.

I told Peeta I loved him.

I wasn't lying.

But for some reason, a small voice inside urges me to take it all back. To pull back again, out of fear and anxiety. To pull back completely from Peeta, to run away and hide somewhere no one else can find me.

I hold myself against the counter as soon as I enter the kitchen, trying to steady my now shaking figure, trying to calm the insane urge to disappear without a trace.

In my eye line, I see a bowl of eggs, left out on counter. Faintly, I remember Peeta mentioning trading with Farrah Wellsby, eggs for bread. He must have forgot about putting them in the refrigerator last night.

Absentmindedly, I decide to cook Peeta a breakfast, the way he always does me, the way he even offered to make me this morning.

I've gotten accustomed to Peeta's cooking and baking—and, to be honest, spoiling—so the sensation of making breakfast on my own, is a completely alien feeling to me now.

Which isn't making me feel any better, at the moment.

I feel the knot in my stomach and my throat only grow larger, only become vaster and, just as my heart begins to beat erratically for a whole new reason, loud footsteps come pounding down the stairs.

For some reason, I expect myself to jump when he approaches me, my entire body already on high alert. Instead though, when his big, warm hands graze my shoulders, when he moves my hair away and begins to kiss the back of my neck, I let out a huge sigh of contentment.

I giggle quietly at the feeling of his lips and instinctively, turn around as soon as he's done kissing to burrow into his arms.

My face presses against his chest, both my arms wrap and tighten around his waist and I mumble quietly, "hello, again."

"Hi," he murmurs affectionately into my tangled hair. His hand rubs up and down my back and I feel myself relax more and more into him, all my troubles suddenly disappearing. "What're you making?"

"Eggs," I plainly say, shrugging nonchalantly. "They're for you."

"I love them," he replies, smiling as he puts the emphasis on the word love. "But I wanted to make you something to eat."

I shake my head now, closing my eyes against him, breathing in his scent of cinnamon and vanilla and something entirely his own. "I'm okay."

He kisses my forehead now, his lips lingering there before reaching out and flipping the eggs onto their other side so they won't burn. "How are you feeling, after last night?" He asks gently. And I feel my entire body freeze into place.

"I'm a little sore but otherwise good," I quickly dodge, smiling up at him, a little too sugary.

He sees through me, without any effort at all, but when he opens his mouth to press me, the phone on the wall rings.

A little disgruntled, Peeta reaches over and answers it, keeping his arm around me. "Hello?"

I can hear from my place against him that the bakery is getting too busy and Val and Thom can't handle it without Peeta there. He starts to refuse, saying he really can't come in today, but I shake my head insistently. Whatever issues I'm having, Peeta is the owner of the business. His first priory needs to be to go take care of anything going on.

"I'll be there soon," he murmurs after a moment, his eyes still trained intently on me. As soon as he hangs up though, his hold only tightens. "What's wrong?" He murmurs, concerned.

"Nothing!" I assure, too fast and too high-pitched.

"I can tell when you're lying, Katniss. You're a horrible actress."

I look down then, growing defensive. "I said I was fine, I don't know why after last night you're trying to create a problem."

I can't explain what motivated me to deflect the blame back on him, but it worked. For some reason, me turning it around onto Peeta made him grow worried and, to my honest horror, feel incredibly guilty.

"Sorry," he whispers softly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I didn't mean to create a problem. I just..."

And I nod, because I already know. He's scared, for reasons different from me, but scared all the same. Scared that last night will be taken away, scared that a moment like that contained too much happiness and now it'll all inevitably be ripped to pieces.

And it strikes me suddenly, that our reasons for being afraid aren't that dissimilar.

They aren't different at all.

"Go," I urge lightly, forcing a false smile upon my face. "You're needed at the bakery."

He doesn't seem to be in any rush though. "I love you," he says, his blue eyes longing and tender.

And I lean my head back against his chest, cuddling there for a long moment, and hope he doesn't realize I didn't say it back.

/

There are times in life when I begin to dwell. So much my childhood I refused to look back on what had been, on what should of been, because it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring back anyone who died or help me feed my family or make the world more fair and forgiving.

But sometimes I can't stop myself. Sometimes I can't stop myself from wishing for things completely out of my control.

This is one of those times.

I wish my family was different. That my father didn't die that horrific, painful, abrupt death. That mother wasn't ill, that she wouldn't have left us alone, that she wouldn't have shoved me forever more into the role of provider for the household.

That my mother wouldn't have made me afraid of love before I even had the chance to experience it.

I wish my sister wasn't blown to pieces, right before my eyes. That I hadn't gotten her killed, that I hadn't been so blind to the game I was a pawn in, that I'd realized before it was too late that my little sister was being sacrificed in order for a president to maintain control of me. That I could have seen it coming, protected her the way I so desperately tried to for so much of her life. I wish that she was here now, to tell me what to do. To tell me, rationally, in her levelheaded way, how to feel. I wish I'd even had the foresight to ask her about Peeta while she was still alive.

And suddenly, as I sit despondently on the ground, staring out the glass door, watching rain pound down onto the grass, a floodgate in my mind opens up and I'm left wishing for so much more.

I wish I was a better person. Someone who deserves Peeta.

I wish we'd met differently, got to know each other right, fallen for the other without any corruption or lies.

I wish I could erase the fear from inside, that I could change who I am. That I could be sure that I wouldn't let him down, that I wouldn't become a giant disappointment, that Peeta wouldn't end up hating me sooner or later.

I wish I could believe in the good of this world, that I could fully buy into the fantasy much of the country are well into embracing. That I could be different. Unscarred. Unhallowed. Undamaged. That someone could take away all the horrors I saw, all the pain Peeta felt, all the nightmares we lived through.

I wish I could trust that another war isn't brewing, that the world isn't going to fall apart again, that the games won't start back up and corruption won't infiltrate our government anymore.

But I can't make any of these things true. I can't wish any of it into reality. No one can change the past or take away what's done, and no one is going to be able to repair me, to make me good and pleasant and kind.

And lovable, I realize. No one can make me what Peeta deserves and I feel bile rise in my throat at the thought of him realizing the same thing. At the thought of losing him now. At the idea that he'll one day wake up and come to see I was right, he made a huge mistake by getting involved with me.

That perhaps, Snow's hijacking wasn't completely off the mark. Through it, Peeta saw me for who I really was.

I'm so distracted, in my pitying and self-loathing thoughts, that I don't register the front door opening, that I don't realize Peeta is back until he's right next to me, sitting beside me.

"Katniss," he whispers, all greetings forgone, clearly seeing the pained expression plastered on my face.

I startle at his voice. "Hi," I say, but my voice breaks and it's evident something is most definitely wrong, and he knows it and there's no going back now because there's no way for him to not know it.

"What's wrong," he says, a little firmer than earlier.

I try to look him in the eye, to pretend in spite of everything, that things are normal between us. "So they didn't need you long at the bakery?"

He bypasses my attempt at avoidance. "Talk to me," he presses.

I turn away from him then, my eyes finding the raindrops splashing against the world outside, running off the roof, landing on the ground, on the dirt, in the primroses. Watering them unintentionally. Giving life to their potential growth.

Giving life to my own tears too, somehow.

Peeta notices my upset at once. "Katniss," he murmurs again, his voice now warmer, lighter and kinder.

And, as I squeeze my eyes closed painfully tight, words that I didn't know were buried inside me come bubbling to the surface without warning, their only predecessor being my waterworks.

"I'm so scared."

It comes out in a nasty sob and I can't even bear to look at him. Somehow though, I know his gaze has softened, that he's looking at me with unparalleled tenderness.

He waits though, for me to either gather myself or blubber out more.

If he was hoping for the former, he's got to be extensively disappointed with the outcome.

"I don't want to get hurt," I whisper, my voice cracking as I force myself now to meet his eyes. His gentle, kind, beautiful blue eyes.

"I won't hurt you," he promises, his voice unyielding but still remaining so incredibly gentle. "Katniss, look at me," he pleads, his eyes filling with tears now too. "Look at me, sweetheart. I'm not going to hurt you. I swear, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I will not cause you anymore pain."

But I'm shaking my head like a maniac. "I'm going to screw this up so badly, I already know it."

"So what? So will I. We're both going to make mistakes, but..." He trails off, his hand slowly reaching out to cup my wet cheek, to hold my eyes in his. "I love you, Katniss. And I always will, no matter what-"

I don't even let him finish, shocking him, and myself, with the declaration. "I love you. I love you more than anything. And that's why I just can't... I can't do this to you-"

Now he's interrupting me. His eyes suddenly look a little lighter though somehow, and I wonder if I should have said the exact words last night instead of just saying real. Perhaps he needed to hear it aloud. Perhaps I've already let him down.

"You aren't doing anything to me," he insists, still holding my face. "And you're not going to let me down." I flinch at his words, not remembering how easily he can read my face.

His eyes pour deeper into mine now than ever before, ensuring that I'm fully focused on what he's trying to say. "You are my entire life. There is nothing you could ever do to make me change how I feel for you, Katniss."

The saltwater still comes rolling down my cheeks. "I'm not the wonderful person you think I am," is all I can manage to say, all other words choked up in the back of my throat.

"Yes, you are." He places a finger on my lips before I can disagree, before I can list everything about me that he will soon come to hate somehow. "And you're also not. Because that's what love is. Seeing a person for all their flaws and loving them even more for it. Loving someone even more for every flaw they have until you love the things you don't even like."

My father's words come rushing back to me and I wish, impractically, that he could be here now, that he could guide me through this, tell me what to do or what to say, just tell me if I'm heading for disaster. Just tell me how not to hurt Peeta.

Just tell me how not to get hurt.

"Love is knowing someone so well that they're a part of you," I whisper, under my breath, and the full meaning of my father's sentiment strikes me.

But Peeta catches it and he seemingly understands the gist somehow. "Yeah, it is. You're a part of me, Katniss. The best part of me. And it's not going to change, even if you make mistakes. Even if you make terrible mistakes, my love for you won't change. Okay? The only thing in question is, do you love me enough to try, even if you're still afraid?"

He's barely finished the inquiry when I pounce, my legs scrambling quickly to straddle his lap, the pain between my thighs groaning lightly. "I love you," I proclaim, my lips traveling across his face, showering him in kisses, trying to convey my feelings beyond what words can express. "I love you so much."

"You do?" He whispers again in disbelief, craving reassurance and confirmation himself, his eyes beginning to glow and water all over again.

"I love you more than anything, Peeta." The statement comes out so naturally, so truthfully, that it feels unreal. Nothing ever comes this easily to us. Nothing in my life is ever this simple. "I just don't want to lose you by making a mistake."

He smirks suddenly and then murmurs close to my ear, "you couldn't lose me if you tried."

It's the same thing I blurted out the night he had his terrible dream. The dream I died.

How many months has it been since then?

How much has changed?

But inevitably, I realize, even just to myself, how much everything has stayed the same. My feelings for Peeta haven't been lukewarm for so long, I don't even know when the shift happened. I can't even remember falling in love with him.

I just know that somehow, against all odds, I did.

And I know what I have to do. What I have to risk. I know what my father and Prim would say to do, what my heart—that I long ago began to ignore—is telling me.

Because I can't protect myself from this anymore. It's gone too far between me and him. I can't protect myself from the potential heartbreak and there's nothing I can do to stop myself from being destroyed if I lose him now.

The only thing I can do is, maybe for the first time, give into my heart's desires.

"So," he prompts after a long moment, his glistening eyes holding a slightly nervous edge, "will you give us a try?"

I don't even hesitate now, nodding almost instinctively to his question. The awed, incredulous glint to his gaze tugs at my heartstrings and I feel my chest ache with love, and once again, my lips act to their own accord, pressing against his passionately.

He returns the kiss happily, understanding the nonverbal answer as a smile takes over his face. "I take that as a yes."

I chuckle lightly, my forehead leaning against his. "You can take that as an I love you," I whisper, rubbing our noses together. "Take that as an I love you."

He gives me a smile that could light up the stars. "You have no idea how long I've wished to hear you to say that."

I can't stop myself from teasing him, leaning back slightly. "Since kindergarten?"

He rolls his eyes but I can see he's still flying internally. "Yes, since kindergarten." His lips suddenly touch mine again and his hands come up to cradle my face. "Since the first time I ever laid eyes on you."

I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth now, smiling in spite of my fear.

Smiling because the revelation suddenly hits me that I don't have to ever let him go.

That nothing will ever make me let go again.

But Peeta catches me off-guard once more though. He leans in slowly and with his breath tickling my neck, whispers into my ear, "stay with me."

My smile inevitably becomes a grin. "Always."