Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I slide my arm around Madge. It feels comfortable, right, like fitting the last piece of a puzzle into its spot.

The credits are rolling on the screen but I don’t yet reach for the remote on the table. One glance over at Madge shows that she is indeed asleep, as I suspect she has been from the first minute of the movie.She’s breathing deeply, her head nuzzled into my shoulder. Her tight grip around my torso requires an extreme amount of effort to escape. I plant a soft kiss on the corner of her lips before lifting her in my arms to carry her to bed. It’s funny how she always seems to fall asleep everywhere but the bedroom.

Once I have dispensed Madge onto the bed, I head back to the kitchen to continue writing in my recipe book. Madge was convinced I’d never remember all of the recipes I’d created, forcing me to write them all down in some corny book she bought me from the store. I put the finishing touches on my new cheesecake recipe, carefully adding a picture I’d taken to the top of the page.

Yawning, I close the book and head over to the bookshelf in the living room to replace its usual spot. But, being the clumsy person that I am, I manage to knock over three other books in the process. 

I can feel my brow crinkling as I take a closer look at one of the books that fell. It has a worn green cover; the pages a bright yellow. I open it to find the center hollowed out- like in some film- with an envelope folded inside. I take it back to the kitchen table, dragging the contents out into the open.

They’re letters.

From her.

*-*-*-*

Dear Peeta,

Right now I’m sitting in the back of my pickup truck in some parking lot in the Capitol, surrounded by crumpled sheets of paper- all failed attempts at trying to find the right words to say to you. I need to tell you how I felt, how I feel right now without you. If I’m ever going to truly let myself go, I have to tell you everything.

That night when we went on a double "date" with Finnick and Annie, I found the uneven tread of your footsteps oddly attractive. Strange, huh? Finding the way someone walks so alluring? I had been hoping you’d make a move. And it wasn’t just the peculiar way you ambled around, either. It was your smile, and your laugh, and the gentle way you placed your hand on the small of my back as you escorted me through the movie theater doors. It was the glimmer of your blue eyes, and the focused look on your face when anyone uttered a single word to you .

Annie thought you’d be perfect for me, despite my never having met you, and she forced me to squeeze into a nice dress and do my hair in that braid she always loved. I wasn’t sure what to expect, because Annie wasn’t exactly a reliable matchmaker.

All throughout the movie I looked over at you, something in the back of my head telling me that if I looked enough maybe one time I’d catch you looking back. And I did. I tried to hide the huge grin on my face when you left to use the bathroom so that you could come back and sit next to me.  You started talking to me, totally ignoring the movie, which normally would have annoyed me, had it been anyone else.

When we all walked out of the theater, you sat next to me in the car, opting to stick with me rather than sit in the front with Finnick and goof around as usual. You sat a little closer than necessary. I didn't have any intention of changing that, but I blushed furiously and pulled away when Finnick glanced back and shot you a wink. The drive home was filled with Finnick and Annie's energetic chatter, which covered for the awkward silence between you and me. I didn’t mind; sitting next to you was comfortable, easy, like being with an old friend.

I wasn’t worried by the way I felt when you walked me up to my front porch. Or the hesitant pause before you finally turned around to go back to the car.

Like you were going to kiss me.

I should have worried. I should have worried from the first moment I saw you.

                                                                                                                 Katniss

*-*-*-*

The silence is deafening when I return to reality.

Slowly, carefully, I maneuver my way back to the bookshelf in the living room. I fold the envelope back inside the cut pages of the book. Sliding the book back into place, I start to realize what I have just read.

Sitting next to you was comfortable, easy, like being with an old friend.

If she had felt such a way with me, why did she leave me? What had been going through her mind as she led me on, captured my heart and then shattered it?

I should have worried. I should have worried from the first moment I saw you.

I don’t even know what to make of this. What does it mean? What is so wrong with me that she should have just stayed away? I run a hand through my hair and huff in frustration. If only Katniss were here to explain.

Lately I’ve been thinking about her often: The punchline of a joke that I wait for her to laugh at. A half-empty bottle of her perfume, lying forgotten on the back of my dresser. The braids Madge sometimes wears, when I imagine Katniss’s raven hair rather than Madge’s bleached blonde.

I shake the memories from my head and bury my face in my hands. Deciding that I will deal with this in the morning, I trudge into my bedroom, where a snoring Madge is sprawled across the blankets. I don’t even bother to undress, instead just sliding under the sheets and settling in for what is sure to be a restless night.

Chapter Text

The familiar chiming of the bell above the door and a burst of hot, stuffy June air greet me as Annie steps through the doorway of the bakery. She gives a smile and a little wave as she approaches and rests her elbows on the countertop before me. I turn to the glass display case, prepared to grab her usual- a single croissant -but she stops me.

“Wait, actually, Peeta,” she says, joining me across the glass. “Get me a strawberry tart and… how about a cheese danish?”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “What, today's the day you feel generous enough to feed Finnick?”

She laughs and shakes her head, tousling her waves of long auburn hair. “Nah. He usually makes one of his super healthy omelets, but today he’s not feeling too well. This is my contribution,” she says, gesturing towards the pastries.

“Won’t let you do anything else for him, huh?” I deduce, and she nods, rolling her eyes. I wrap the two baked goods in wax paper and tuck them inside the brown paper bag where the bakery’s insignia is printed.

"Have a good day, Annie," I call out to her as she walks away. "Tell Finnick I said feel better."

 She waves at me, smiling, and heads back out into the summer heat.

Business is fairly slow throughout the rest of the day, and I let my mind wander back to Katniss’s letters in between customers.

How did the letters get into that book- and into my apartment -anyway? It’s not like Katniss wrote them while she was still around; she specifically said that she was somewhere in the Capitol at the time. And if that’s true, then I can’t think of any other way they could have gotten there, except if Katniss had broken into my house. The thought makes me laugh a little, since that obviously didn’t happen.

So what did?

I try to forget about it and focus on the last few customers of the day. Our exchanges pass without much incident, and I pull my stained apron over my head tiredly after they’ve gone. I trudge to my car and drive home in complete silence, relishing solely in the constant hum of passing cars.

I flick on the lights to my apartment, realizing that Madge is still at work, and slump into a seat at the kitchen table. Despite the minimal amount of effort today required, my energy is totally drained- maybe from the confusion of these past two days.

I groan in remembrance and lift myself from the chair. Despite my reluctance to read any of them, there are many more of Katniss’s letters that I have yet to open.

Walking over to the shelf, I pick out the book and pluck the next envelope from the top of the pile.

I take a deep, labored breath, then raise the paper from my face and begin to read.

X-X-X-X

You didn’t respond to my first letter. I figured you’d throw it away with all of your other junk mail. Did you? Will you do that when you get this one too? Or will you stop and take a look, maybe scratch your head and sigh like you always do when something frustrates you? I know you still don’t understand, I know you’re still confused. To be honest, I am too. I’m hoping these letters will help us both sort things out and move on, for better or for worse.

I didn’t mean to do this, but ironically I have a spice cake in the oven. You know how some smells can remind of you of things? That one scent that you forever associate with a memory? This god damned cake keeps assaulting my senses and bringing me back to our first official date.

When you texted me the night before, I was so confused, because I hadn't given you my number that day we went out with Annie and Finnick. It was a simple text, just a greeting and an explanation of how you'd reached me- through Annie, of course, who was so desperate for us to get together that she'd readily given you my number- but nonetheless, it gave me butterflies to read your name in the message bubble.

Before I knew it, we were texting freely, and even through the phone, it felt so easy to hold a conversation with you. You made up for my silences when I didn't know how to respond; you were flirtatious, but only just so; it was as if you knew you could scare me away easily by being too brash.

And it was with this sense of comfort in mind that I carelessly invited you to my apartment the next night. I didn't even have anything planned. I just knew that I had to see you again. You agreed eagerly, and the idiotic smile that stretched across my face did not go unnoticed by me.

Preparation for your arrival the next evening was tedious. I tried four different looks, consulted six different people on the matter of my appearance- including Gale, which even I knew at that moment was a bit ludicrous- and even experimented with a little makeup- although the most that came of that was a fine layer of foundation coating my bathroom counter and at least three mascara smudges on varying parts of my face.

I had just decided on my final wardrobe pieces when you knocked. I was surprised when my heart leapt into my throat, and I couldn't stop the trembling in my hands as I reached for the door. You looked ten times better than I'm sure I did, because your smile was confident, and the small bouquet of flowers in your hand wasn't shaking at all.

"Oh, Peeta," I had said when you handed me the flowers. "You shouldn't have gotten me these. Tonight is nothing, really."

But you just waved me off, and I ushered you inside my home, fussing over small things like the TV remotes on the table or the petals on the flowers you had just given me. Anything to avoid the deep pools of blue that were your eyes.

But then you cut through the awkward silence, announcing that you had brought ingredients to make dinner for us. My whole face must have lit up, because you laughed and told me not to object, so I bit my tongue and led you into the kitchen.

I don't remember much about the dinner. It was fantastic, is all I know for sure. Because I just kept getting distracted by every detail about you: Your floppy golden curls. Your strong hands mincing and mixing and stirring. Your broad back and chest, with that wonderful baby blue button-down stretched over them. And your eyes. Oh, those eyes.

I sat perched on the chair next to you after dinner, feeling ready to burst at the seams with the amount of food I had consumed. But there was still more to come, you told me. You extracted more ingredients from your bag and told me we'd- yes, we'd - be making a spice cake.

I had shaken my head fervently, reminding you over and over again that I couldn't bake to save my life, but you just laughed and grabbed my hand to lead me to the kitchen once more.

I'm just glad you couldn't feel my heartbeat, because in that moment- with my hand engulfed in yours- it was nonexistent.

I learned many things that night, with you guiding me through the recipe for your favorite cake. I learned that baking shouldn't be hard, even for someone as inept as me, if you have a good teacher. I also learned that baking is extra hard when said teacher is standing directly behind you, his arms reaching around you, encircling you, his words tickling your ear, walking you through how to mix ingredients and stir ingredients and blah, blah, blah.

Once the cake was in the oven, I huffed a sigh of relief, sure that the hard part was over. I peeked up at you, and was taken aback to see your gaze already focused on me. I started to giggle.

"What?" you had questioned, though you were smiling too. "What are you laughing at?"

I gestured to your face. "You have flour like, all over your cheek."

You laughed with me, then swiped at the wrong side of your face. I corrected you, only to have you miss the spot, over and over again. Finally, I reached up myself and brushed the flour away gently, reveling in the soft heat of your skin.

I must have lingered a little too long, because you glanced at my hand and then at my face, perhaps wondering why such a compassionate touch was needed. The laughter that was still bubbling in our throats at that moment quickly died down. I looked away and snatched my hand back, cheeks flaming, sure that you were freaked out. But when I met your eyes again, those damn eyes, they were locked onto my own, clearly conveying the same fondness I was feeling at that moment.

And, for the second time that week, I thought for sure you were going to kiss me.

But the universe hated me then as much as it always has, and the smoke alarm began beeping incessantly. We jumped apart, the moment ruined, and were instantly jolted to our senses. I rushed around the apartment, opening windows, letting in a breeze that cooled both the smoky room and my flushed cheeks. You shut the oven off and pulled out the cake, smoking and blackened, and placed it in the sink.

Once the ruined cake had stopped smoldering, you looked to me.

"You were right," you said, and I cocked my head in confusion. "You really can't bake."

The contrast of your attitude with what had just taken place struck me at once, and I burst into a fit of laughter. You chuckled a little, too, looking damn pleased with yourself.

Now where has the time gone while I wrote this? The cake's done.

To be honest, it tasted a little better burnt.  

                                                              Katniss

X-X-X-X

My eyes are so dry when I'm done reading that I have to physically remind myself to blink. Why is it that Katniss's writing can cause me to lose track of time- and my own reflexes?

I remember our first date well. God, I've never been able to get it out of my memory- even now, a year after Katniss left. Every detail about that night is burned into my mind.

It was the first time I could tell she might have reciprocated the feelings I had for her. The feelings that once had scared and confused me. By the time I had it all sorted out, I realized she had seen me in the same light the entire time.

But that first date, that one moment where she was touching my cheek, whatever I had seen in her eyes gave me the first hint.

And now I have this letter, this god damned letter, to tell me the same thing on her side of things.

I hug the paper to my chest, wishing for Katniss right about now, here in my kitchen. She'd be smiling, like only I could make her. Or at least that's what she told me once. If she was feeling particularly loving, she'd straddle my lap and lay her head on my shoulder.

I imagine that now, closing my eyes and smiling. I miss her so much.

My eyes fly open. No, I don't. I don't miss her.

Haven't you moved on?

Yes, I have. That's what I've been telling myself for the past six months, since I started seeing Madge. I groan. It's just these letters. They're making me go back a year, to those moments and those emotions.

It's the effort it takes to convince myself of this that concerns me.

X-X-X-X

I've unintentionally fallen asleep. I realize this when Madge's key in the door wakes me.

Instantly I jump up and hastily gather the letters together. I stuff them inside the book and slide it back into its place in the bookshelf just as Madge pushes through the door, loaded down with work and mail and looking utterly drained.

"Hey!" I quip, a little too brightly.

She's too exhausted to notice my strange behavior, though. "Hey," she says, dropping her stuff on the kitchen table and flopping down on the couch.

"How was your day?" I ask, doing my best to relax a little.

She turns her head in my direction and sighs. "Oh, it was fine. A little exhausting, but fine." Then she cocks her head. "Why are you standing in front of the bookshelf? Were you actually reading?" She asks the second question with a quirked eyebrow, amusement in her voice.

"Ha, ha," I deadpan. "No, I was just looking." I shrug. "I'm bored. I was just waiting for you to get home."

Madge gives me a funny look. Then her eyes dart somewhere just behind me. She seems to find something to her liking, and she releases a relieved breath. Now she's the one acting strange.

"Hey, you want to watch a movie later?" I ask.

"Nope," she answers, then rushes to explain. "I'm really tired. I would just fall asleep, and I know how much you hate that."

"Yeah, okay." I nod. "I get it."

She smiles a little too widely at me, and then she stands. "Anyways, I'm going to go to bed."

As she passes, her gaze once again flits behind me.

"Hey," I say, and she jumps. "Don't I get a goodnight kiss?"

"Oh." She laughs breathily. "Yeah," she says, and then leans in to meet my lips.

"Goodnight," I say. She returns the sentiment and pads off to bed.

It's not until the lights in our room flick off that I realize what she was so distracted by.

It's the book. The book, that holds the letters.  

The letters that she hid from me.

Chapter Text

 The cricks in my neck and back when I wake are reminiscent of that of an old man’s, and I wince as I rise from my spot on the couch. I had ended up crashing here after my grave realization about Madge last night had me feeling incredibly uncomfortable with sharing a bed with her. Now, though, I’m beginning to regret my sleeping choices.

   I stretch my aching body and lumber into the bedroom. As usual, my heavy footsteps alert Madge to my presence, and she looks up at me from where she perches on our bed. Slipping her dainty feet into those sky-high heels she wears every day to work- I don’t know how she manages to get around in them- she smiles at me and rises from her spot.

   “Good, morning, sleeping beauty,” she jabs, approaching me and winding her slender arms around my neck.

  “Morning,” I reply, still groggy with sleep. “Sorry I didn’t join you last night.”

  “It’s fine. Fell asleep watching the movie, I’m guessing?” She detaches her arms and clicks over to her vanity. “That’s a first.“

  Barely hearing her, I nod and take a seat on the bed. Madge eyes me from her spot by the dresser. She can sense that something’s off with me- at this point I can read her like a book- and I try to reassure her with a weak smile. She removes one of what must be a thousand necklaces from its hook and loops it around her neck. “A little help, please?” she asks, batting her eyelashes suggestively and making no attempt to hide the flirtatious undertones to her words.

  I pad over to her and hook the two beaded ends together. Our gazes meet in the mirror, and Madge takes my hands from where they rest on her shoulders and slides them down to her hips.

  “Think you can help me with something else, too?” she asks, her voice low and her eyes dark.

  She smiles mischievously, knowing that she’s got me in the palm of her hand. I give in, wanting this as much as she does, and she backs me up against the wall, pushing her hands through my hair and pressing her lips to mine. I tighten my hold on her hips and lean into the kiss, momentarily losing myself before I come careening back into reality. She hid the letters. She doesn’t trustyou. I wrench away from her suddenly. Her hooded eyes survey me for a moment, perplexed, until finally she purses her red, made-up lips and furrows her brow.

  “I…” I start. Then I back away from her.

  Madge leans against the wall, questioning me with her stare, but I don’t wait around to hear what she has to say. I stride purposefully out of the room, mentally bracing myself for her words.

   “Hey!” she calls from the bedroom, then scurries after me.“Hey!”

   At this I stop, sighing and turning around to face her.

   “Peeta, what’s wrong?” she asks, smoothing my hair back. I can see the traces of confusion still underlying in her expression as she searches my eyes, but they are mostly eclipsed by her outward concern for me.

   “I just… I don’t-” I sputter uselessly, struggling to convey what I’m thinking without hurting her feelings. That I know about the letters, and that she stowed them away so I wouldn’t find them. How hurt I am that she would keep secrets from me. The uncertainty of our relationship if she doesn’t trust me to have gotten over Katniss.

   Instead, I blurt the quickest lie I can conjure. “I think I might have the flu.” At Madge’s dazed expression, I continue. No turning back now. “I, uh… I visited Finnick and Annie the other day. I didn’t know till I got there that Finnick was sick.  He was still contagious, from what Annie told me. He probably gave it to me somehow.”

   I scratch the back of my neck. Only Katniss knows me well enough to have learned that this is the one telltale sign that I am lying. “I didn’t want to get you sick, too.”

   She surveys me once more before sighing and leaning her head against my chest. “Okay,” she says quietly against me. “Fine. I’m sorry.”

I pull her from my chest and hold her at arm’s length. “Didn’t I just say I was sick?” I crack a smile to lighten the mood and, to my relief, she allows herself one, too.

   “Alright, I should get going,” she sighs. I give her shoulders a squeeze and kiss her on the forehead. “Get away from me, sicko!” she laughs, and I let her go. “Are you planning on going to the bakery today, then, or what?”

   “No, I guess I shouldn’t,” I reply. “Unless people prefer influenza in their danishes.” She fakes a gagging noise and I chuckle.

   “You don’t want me to stay with you?” she asks, and I shake my head. “Okay then. See you tonight,” she says as she gathers her things.

  Madge gives me a parting wave and says, “Feel better,” before pulling the door shut behind her.

   After she’s gone, I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I watch the retreating form of her car in the building’s parking lot.

   And then I pull the green book from its place in the shelf.

X-X-X-X

   Half of me hopes you’re getting these. The other half is wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole, because sometimes I think these letters were the worst idea in the world. They’re making me regret my decision to leave you, and that’s not a feeling I’m ready to embrace.

  I’m going to move on now. None of this is fair to say to you when I’m sure you’re doing so well.

   I want to talk about our first kiss. How cheesy, I know. But just sit tight and read, okay?  

   The invitation you extended to go ice skating wasn’t initially well-received. I’m best on solid land, where there’s traction; the woods have always posed as my second home and the feeling of the rough terrain under my boots is freeing. Which is why the idea of sliding around on ice, hoping not to fall and break something, wasn’t exactly something I was eager to try. But it was you, and you were kind and thoughtful and funny and amazing. So I eventually said yes.

   I dressed warmly that night, of course, because it was ice and the rink was outside and the temperature was well below freezing. But such attire was pointless, because the feeling you caused in me with that smile and those dimples provided enough heat to warm me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

   And even if I had been a professional skater, I would still have been reduced to a tangle of limbs on the ice because of the way you distracted me with every look, every laugh, every touch. I wanted to remain on the ground, too, after my first few attempts to stay balanced ended in bumps and bruises. But you were a pro, for what reason I still do not know, and you caught me every time after that. I don’t know if you were able to tell, but a few of those falls were deliberate. I was always desperate for your touch.

   It was when you had scraped me off the ice after one of these blatant spills that we had our cliche movie moment, with light flakes of snow falling all around us. You pulled me up, you laughing and me pouting (it was a fake pout, I was secretly enjoying myself), and suddenly we were face to face.

   It seemed like an eternity before I came back from my mini-vacation into your eyes. I couldn’t look away, I couldn’t breathe. Then you took my chin in your gloved hand and turned my face upward. I thought you would be able to hear my heart pounding furiously in my chest in that moment.

   “Katniss,” you said, low and full of question.

   I responded with a meek, “Yeah?” and watched you take a moment to consider your next words.

   “Can I kiss you now?”

   “Always the gentleman,” I replied, and I barely got to see your smiling lips before they were pressed against my own.

   My Peeta. Always the gentleman.

X-X-X-X

One after another.

Letters.

One after another.

X-X-X-X

   Christmas. A year after we’d met. Remember? You probably do; you’re a guy. Aren’t guys supposed to remember their first time with a new girlfriend?

   That’s not what I remember. Well, I do, considering I’d been with guys before but none like this, none this amazing and perfect and you.

   But that wasn’t really what had stuck with me. What really mattered were the moments after, the moments where we lay, side by side, nude and slightly sweaty.

   The moments where, after a companionable silence, I’d shifted my head onto your bare chest and sighed.

   “Peeta,” I’d said, and you made a noise of inquiry, drifting somewhere in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness.

   I took a deep breath and said the words I hadn’t dare let do anything but brew within my mind. “I think I love you, Peeta.”

   You raised your head. “You think?” you croaked, exaggerated disbelief written across your features. “You fucking think?”

   Then you were tickling me and I was cackling and squirming, until you reduced me to a fit of giggles and stopped, satisfied.

   “Okay!” I’d gasped. “Okay, okay. I don’t think. I know.”

   Then I took your face in my hands and you looked up at me with those fucking blue eyes that had reeled me in from the very beginning. “I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent certain that I am insanely in love with you, Peeta Mellark.”

   You smiled. Oh, you gifted me with your beautiful white smile. Then you kissed me and repeated my words back to me.

   And it was there, in those lazy, love-filled, post-coital moments that I began to feel the first stirrings of concern. You loved me, I loved you. We were blissfully, stupidly in love. What could be wrong with that?

X-X-X-X

   Letters and letters and confusion- my God I’m so confused- and doubt- I love Madge I love Madge I love Madge- and letters.

X-X-X-X

   The doctors. They are what get me every night, striding through the halls of the hospital, whispering things to each other that I can’t hear, pushing me back, back, even though I know the thing I want- need- to find is directly beyond those doors. Trapping me in world I never wanted to find, a world I can’t escape without your arms surrounding me, welcoming me into a reality that is slightly better. A reality where the sun doesn’t shine but rather is lit by your smiling face every day.

   It was during one of these nights that you woke me, your panicked yells mixing at first with the squeak of sneakers on linoleum floors, the blaring sirens of ambulances that I couldn’t see. But then everything quieted and it was just you, my Peeta reaching for me and holding me and rocking me while I sobbed.

   “It isn’t real, Katniss. It was a nightmare. I’m here.” Your hushed voice, soothing me and leading me out of the darkness.

   After a while I looked up at you and saw that your eyes were shining, too. My pain was your pain. It hurt you to know that I was hurting. And that was what eventually silenced my whimpers; eased my heartache to a dull throb.

   Your hands, your lips, your strong arms. They were what I needed to finally emerge from the terror. Because the doctors in my nightmare that night? They were merely the background players. You were the star. Bloodied, broken, blaming.

   Writing this helps. Because right now it’s early morning, and I’ve just woken from a nightmare, screaming and sweaty. But writing to you, while similar to communicating with a brick wall, is also therapeutic. It doesn’t do as good of a job as being enveloped in your arms, of course, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.

  I am no longer a part of reality without my golden boy, my Peeta. I am ensnared by the doctors, the secretive doctors who throw me nasty, blaming looks, because I am the cause of whatever gory thing lies behind those doors. The doctors that shove me back, hard, just as I truly believe I am about to make it past. And it pains me to wake from their merciless torture even more now, because you are not with me and that, I know, is because of me.

   I’ll end this letter now, because it is unfair of me to bring this all upon you at once. But just remember that our split was for the best. It was. I know it may not seem like it now. But one day you’ll understand.

  You always have.

X-X-X-X

   Laughing, crying, smiling a sad, bittersweet smile. I feel emotions, so strong they scare me, brought on in such a way that only Katniss can.

X-X-X-X

   Sunlight, streaming through the curtains. The sense of utter completion that comes with a full night’s rest. A sleepy face with hair of straw and spun gold.

   These are all things I used to be greeted with every morning. Things I miss so much. I’ve never been much of a writer, to put it kindly. But these letters are turning me into a damn poet, don’t you think?

  Yet no author in the world could possibly put into words how I felt waking up beside you every day, feeling your arm slung across my waist and hearing your sleeping breaths, deep and even. It made me regret all the time I wasted trying to decide whether or not to take the leap and move in with you.

   Total bliss is what I miss.

   (I might as well be Doctor fucking Suess.)

X-X-X-X

   Barely a part of reality, flipping madly through the stack,reading, reading, reading.

X-X-X-X

   We were a band of elephants, crashing through the woods. Well, you were, at least. I was silent and quick on my feet, constantly reminding myself of reasons not to scream at you.

  He has a prosthetic leg, Katniss.

  He’s never even been in the woods, Katniss.

  He doesn’t know that he’ll scare off all the damn game, Katniss.

   When we finally reached my usual clearing, you were panting and red-faced, which was expected, seeing as you’d never scaled the hilly terrain before.

   “Why did I agree to this again?” you’d muttered.

   I rolled my eyes. “Shut up and come over here.” Still mumbling under your breath, you ambled over, taking the bow from me when I pressed it into your hands. “Here. You can use mine, since I don’t have an extra.

   “Alright. Now it’s best if you spread your feet a little, to get a stronger stance.” You followed my instructions and faced your shoulder to the makeshift target I had pinned to a nearby tree.

   We spent the next three hours there. I exhausted an obscene amount of effort trying to impart any morsel of my wisdom upon you, but it all turned out to be for naught. At the end of the day you were still hopeless, and about a quarter of my arrows were lost in the woods forever. The rest had either pierced the ground somewhere far from the tree or just barely grazed the bark.

   But the whole experience still felt worthwhile, because it had been with you. And, of course, it had all ended in fits of laughter at your ineptitude. Despite how disgruntled you had seemed when I poked fun at you, I still saw the mirth in your eyes when you completely missed the target- every single time.

   Afterwards, when we climbed back out of the woods, you took my hand in yours and, even though it had been nearly two years since we began dating, my breath caught in my throat at the feeling.

   “Sorry about your arrows,” you said suddenly, and I laughed.

   “It’s alright.”

   “No, I feel bad.”

   I stopped in my tracks to face you and you followed suit.

   “Hey, it’s fine,” I said, rubbing your bicep. “I can get more.”

   You sighed and nodded, then continued walking, pulling me along by the hand.

   Then I said, “None like that, though. My dad made them.”

   You groaned loudly, your caring nature surely not able to ever let this go, but I just laughed and pushed on your shoulder. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” I said.

   “I hate you,” you murmured, contradicting your words with a kiss, which I gladly reciprocated.

   Despite your faux declarations of resentment, it was the happiest I’d been since…  well, it’d been a while. I hope you’re just as happy now, surely with some beautiful girl, the kind who cooks and cleans (the feminist in me is screaming at me as I write this) and makes you laugh that beautiful laugh.

   Our breakup was for the best. Because now you get to be happy, in the way that I can’t ever truly make you.

  You deserve this, Peeta. You deserve better.

X-X-X-X

   Deserve this? I don’t deserve shit.

   Why did I let her go?

X-X-X-X

   It’s funny, how one moment you can be doing something so normal, like brushing your teeth or walking the dog or making the bed- and then the next moment your whole life changes. Every sense of normality you have comes crashing down around you and you’re left in the rubble, roaming around and trying to pick up the pieces, wondering how you even got here in the first place.

   It just so happened to be our two-year anniversary that night. I had just finished preparing dinner (I know you’re raising your eyebrows at this, smartass)- some complex marinaded chicken thing that had taken at least three tries to successfully make- and was adding the finishing touches before you came home from the bakery. I was humming, too, believe it or not. You made me so happy I sometimes couldn’t control myself.

   I had just set out the silverware and was headed to grab the lighter for the candles I had so romantically placed on the table when my phone rang. It was Johanna, calling from her job at the hospital- to this day, I do not understand how she ended up there because she is terrible with people- and I continued my little tune right up until I picked up the phone.

   “Hello?” I sing-songed.

   “Katniss, something has happened,” she said tightly, and immediately I knew something was off because she was referring to me by my real name instead of some demeaning nickname.

   My breath caught in my throat. “W-What is it?” I managed to squeak.

   “It’s Peeta. He’s been in an accident.”

   My heart stopped and I wanted to die, like I was sure you had just recently. I didn’t reply, just slid down the wall and stared at the pictures hanging up, the ones of us when you were alive, when we were happy and you were alive.

   I heard Johanna call my name from the other line.

   I smiled at the photo of you in the bakery, at that time in my life where I was convinced I was going to become a photographer. You, holding up two fingers in a peace sign and smiling. Flour on your cheek. Just like on our first date, I thought.

   “Katniss?”

   Oh, how foolish I’ve been.

   “Katniss.”

   To think this would last.

   “Katniss, I’m coming to get you. Stay put.”

   Nothing good lasts in this world, Katniss. You know that better than anyone.

   “Stay strong, sweetie.” And then a click.

   I laughed at Johanna’s last words.

   How could I be strong in a world that was so set on making me weak?

   I was silent the entire drive to the hospital. There was nothing to say.

   The white tiles of the hospital floor passed by in a blur as Johanna quickly led me through the halls to your room. Several times I had to clench my fists to remind myself that this wasn’t a nightmare, that this was my real life, because my surroundings were so eerily similar to that of my dreams. There were people everywhere, so many people in scrubs and lab coats and I wanted them gone. I wanted everyone gone as I said goodbye to my Peeta.

   Johanna started to pull me through the doors of your room, but a gloved hand stopped her.

   “What’s her relation to the patient?” a man with short brown hair and thick glasses asked Johanna, hooking a thumb in my direction.

   “She’s his girlfriend,” Johanna huffed, clearly needing as much as me to get to Peeta.

   “Sorry.” The man scrunched his nose and pushed his glasses up. “She can’t go in there. Family only.”

   “Please,” Johanna begged, tightening her arm where it lay around my shoulders. “She needs to see him.”

   “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. She can’t go in there if she’s not a family member.” This sterile-smelling doctor seemed bent on making me seethe.

   “I’m all he’s got,” I croaked, the first time I had spoken since I had answered Johanna’s phone call. “His dad died when he was little, and his mother is an abusive drunk. Neither of his brothers care enough to come, either, so unless you want him to die alone, I suggest you let me into that fucking room.” By now I was shouting at this doctor, this poor, unsuspecting doctor who was only trying to do his job.

  I almost apologized when you called out to me, the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

“Katniss?”

“Peeta!”

  I ran to you. I fucking ran to you, the fastest I had ever moved, completely bypassing the evil doctor and his protests. I flung myself into your waiting arms, careful not to stir your fragile body lain on the bed.

   “God, you’re alive, Peeta,” I breathed, kissing your mouth, your nose, your cheeks, any inch of skin my lips could find. My fingers fluttered over your skin, bruised but otherwise wholly undamaged.

   “It would appear so,” you said, your voice raspy from disuse. “Unless this is heaven. Oh, Katniss, you’re crying.”

   I nodded, laughing ashamedly. “I’m just so fucking happy you’re alive. I thought you… Oh, god. Peeta, I couldn’t live with myself if you had died.”

   “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.” You stroked my hair back affectionately. “Besides, it’s not like I lost a leg or anything.”

   I emitted a choked, watery sound that was a poor excuse for a laugh.

   And we lay there, comforting each other, crying, cracking much needed jokes, until late that night, when I refused Johanna’s offers to drive me home, instead crashing on the chair beside your bed and ignoring my body’s pained protests the next morning.  

X-X-X-X

  My pounding head is clutched between my hands when Madge arrives home. By now the letters are safely in their spot- I put them away hours ago, when my mind began reeling so much I couldn’t read any more.

  I don’t even bother to greet her as the door clicks shut and she approaches me.

  “Peeta? Honey?”  

  I lift my head and stretch my mouth in a sorry attempt at a smile. Madge clucks sympathetically at me and holds a hand to my forehead.

  “You don’t feel too hot. You sure you’re sick?” She crinkles her brow and frowns down at me.

  “I feel like shit, Madge,” I say, which isn’t technically a lie. “So, yeah, pretty sure I’m sick.”

  “Okay, okay,” she replies, throwing her hands up in a placating gesture. “Let’s get you to bed, then.”

  She hooks her arm around my middle and we amble over to the bedroom. My thoughts are still whirring around in my head as Madge helps me out of my shoes, shirt, and pants, laying me in bed dressed in only my boxers. Then she kisses my forehead and walks off.

X-X-X-X

   Fire. Fire all around me. Flames so hot I can feel my skin melting. Smoke so thick it clogs my throat and closes off my airway. Immediately I’m whirling around, trying to find an escape route, gasping and heaving for clean air.

   Then I see her in the doorway- of the bakery, I realize, I’m in the bakery- simply watching me. Collected. Calm, even. I make to move toward her, but then I stop. The entire counter in front of me catches fire and I look up, helpless.

   “Madge!” I call out to her. “Madge, help!”

   She scrutinizes me for a moment, perhaps deciding something, before waving at me.

   Then she darts away.

   I’m screaming after her, begging for her to return, but she’s gone as quick as she came. My yells are lost in the roar of the flickering flames, and soon my throat is dry and burning.

   My situation becomes bleaker with every inch of my bakery the fire eats up. I eventually slide to the floor, hopeless and sobbing, the tears doing nothing to assuage the stinging in my dry eyes.

   Then suddenly I’m being tapped, poked by a pair of hands that gesture frantically for me to follow. The smoke around me is so thick it creates a wall between my savior and me, preventing me from seeing the body to which those hands are attached.

  I clutch desperately at the offering, clinging to this mysterious being as it heaves me from the ground. We slink around the flames, somehow finding a route I hadn’t seen before. I follow the hands blindly, never releasing my vise-like grip on them, and soon we’re out of the bakery and all the fumes and heat trapped inside and I’m gasping and sputtering, taking deep gulps of the fresh, cool air around me.

  The last thing I notice before the nightmare dissolves is a tiny pink mark marring the webbing between the thumb and index finger of one of the hands.

X-X-X-X

   I’m trembling and weeping openly when Madge shakes me awake, shouting things at me- indistinguishable at first- that turn into words.

“Peeta! Hey, it’s okay,” she soothes, and my eyes snap open, surveying my surroundings.  “It was a nightmare. It wasn’t real. I’m here.”

  I nod and untangle my legs from the sheets. My body is still wracked with tremors, so Madge lays her head on my chest and drapes an arm across me to interlock our fingers.

  As I try my best to review the details of my dream, I’m reminded of one piece of information again- that scar. Who did those hands belong to?

  I’ve almost given up trying to figure it out when it hits me.

  Buttercup.

  Katniss’s old cat, the one she despised but put up with because her little sister loved it so. The one that had scratched her hand once when she and Prim were trying to wash him. The scar on her hand…

  It was Katniss. She was the one saving me from that fire. Madge ran away, saved herself, and Katniss actually passed through the flames to come to my rescue.

  What kind of fucked-up metaphor is this?

  I’m too tired to figure it out right now, so I settle down for what I hope will be an uneventful rest of the night.

  And when I hear Madge’s telltale deep, even breaths, I scoot- ever so slightly- out of her embrace.

Chapter Text

I wake with Madge’s head on my chest, which I quickly and quietly remove before sliding out of bed.

Saturday. Neither Madge nor I have work today, so I take my time in stretching and dressing and doing all the other morning preparations. When given the chance, Madge typically sleeps in pretty late, so I put on a pot of coffee and flip through today’s newspaper, not really reading any of it.

Now that I’m neither sleeping nor caught up in any one activity, I can’t help but look back on last night’s dream. Was the entire thing symbolism? What in the hell did any of it mean?

I’m so caught up in my inner turmoil that I don’t notice Madge has meandered into the kitchen earlier than usual until she wraps her arms around my neck from behind and plants a kiss to my cheek.

“Hey,” she greets, voice still rugged from sleep. “Feeling any better?”

“Sorta,” I lie, because I never felt sick in the first place. “Head still feels a little foggy.”

“You can take something for that, you know,” Madge replies. “Let me just see what we have in here…” She begins rummaging through one of our cabinets.

“That’s alright, babe,” I tell her, and she turns back to me. “I think I might just- Can I take a walk? Would you mind?”

Madge smiles at me. “Of course I wouldn’t mind, silly. I don’t rule your life.” She pulls her robe tighter around herself. “I think I’ll just brush my teeth and then have some coffee and the scones you surely brought home…?”

I roll my eyes. “Pantry,” I say, and laugh when she fist-pumps and heads into her bathroom to get dressed.

Then, peeking around the corner for several moments to ensure she won’t be coming back out, I snatch the remaining letters from their book- Only two left, I think sadly- and head out the door.

X-X-X-X

The walk I told Madge I’d be taking soon turns into a hike, until I’m huffing and puffing on the top of a small hillcrest in a manner reminiscent of Katniss’s letter. But the refreshing mountain air quickly cools my cheeks, and I pause a moment to take in Katniss’s second home- hilly terrain, the incessant chatter of wildlife, crunching leaves, the smell of pine.

I lower myself onto a nearby rock- flattened and smooth, almost like a natural seat- and pull out the crumpled paper from my back pocket. I take a deep breath of the woodsy, almost stifling scent of the forest around me.

And then I begin to read, pausing every few moments so as not to skip a single detail.

X-X-X-X

I know I’ve said this way too many times, but I most definitely should not be writing these letters. Pretty ironic, I know, considering my pen is still to this paper and I’m still writing.

But you should know that this isn’t how I wanted any of it to happen. I wanted to write letters to you, yes, but I never planned to send any of them. I tend to do that a lot, actually- write letters to people to let out my feelings and then not send them. It’s a sort of therapy for me. You have baking and painting, I have writing letters that never get delivered.

But then I was at the post office and the letter was in my hand, and it miraculously ended up in an envelope, covered with your name and address and some ridiculously expensive stamps. And then it was in a mailbox. It was probably halfway en route to your apartment complex before I could have second thoughts about what I had done.

So I just want to apologize to you now, when my thoughts are clear. I want to say sorry for starting all this shit. I didn’t mean to burden you with any of it. I don’t want you to have to feel the same emotions from an entire year ago, the ones you probably thought you had finally escaped. And I don’t want you to get in trouble with your girlfriend. Has she seen these? I sincerely hope not, because the last thing I’d want is for you to go through another breakup because of me.

Anyway, you should know that these are going to stop.

Right after I talk about our split.

The thing is, you didn’t really know we were even breaking up. It was hot that day. God, so hot, and humid, too. I remember because near the end, I couldn’t distinguish the tears running down my face from the sweat.

It was a few weeks after you’d come home from the hospital. You opened the bakery again directly after your return, of course; you’d only sustained a few bumps and bruises, but something tells me you’d have worked with two shattered legs.

Your injuries didn’t matter to me. It was just that the crash had even happened in the first place. The risk of losing you. It terrified me.

The fear was all-consuming, until soon I couldn’t think of anything but. Maybe you noticed that change. I think you probably did; you’re an incredibly perceptive person. My mood slowly soured, and I was no longer myself. You, of course, did everything you could to bring me out of this mysterious funk. You baked me every pastry in the book- most I had never even heard of. I didn’t eat a single one. I didn’t eat much at all, actually, after a while. I was wasting away. But you told jokes. You bought flowers and showered me with gifts. How much did you spend on me in those weeks? Just another debt I’ll never repay.

And you painted for me. I remember those most of all. I may have been unresponsive, but Peeta, I never forgot those. Their beauty haunts me in some of my dreams.

It was when you were showing me one of these works of art that I realized what needed to happen.

“It’s you,” you had said shyly, after I stared uncomprehendingly at the canvas.

Of course I knew it was me; it was too accurate to not recognize it (although painting-Katniss was beautiful and radiant, and real-Katniss is anything but).

Suddenly all your perfections seemed amplified against my many shortcomings, and my head began to reel in panic.

“Peeta, we can’t,” I blurted, squeezing my eyes shut.

“What?”

“We can’t do this anymore. I can’t be with you anymore.”

The effect of my words was instantaneous. Your entire face dropped, the tentative smile sliding right off. My heart splintered a little more with every breath we both took, until it shattered when you emitted a tiny, strangled sob.

“What… Why?” you whimpered, and in that moment I was sure I was suffocating.

“I can’t… I can’t lose you.” It didn’t make any sense, and I knew it, but it still pained me to see your expression.

“But, Katniss, I love you,” you pleaded.

“I know,” I replied, the tears starting to flow. “And I love you. But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I lost you.”

“But I can’t live without you.”         

I was crying freely now, and I shook my head violently at your words. I was surprised to look down at my skin and see that it wasn’t cracking and crumbling like I felt it was. Then I turned and ran to our bedroom, grabbing things from the dresser and closet and drawers and throwing them into a duffel bag.

“Katniss- Katniss, stop!”

You grabbed my arm, shouting at me and crying. Shaking, I sank to the ground.

“Katniss, please. Stop.”

And I did. I fell into your arms, weeping, and you held me close and whispered softly into my hair.

“It’s okay,” you soothed. “Stay with me.”

I decided to. I really thought I would. But sometimes, things don’t go exactly as planned. Because in the morning, when you left for the bakery, I rose from our bed and wrote you a brief note. Then I packed my things and took the first train to the Capitol.

This will be the last letter. I miss you. I do. But we’re both better off this way.

I hope you have a good life, Peeta, because you deserve it.

                                                                    All my love from the Capitol,

                                                                                             Katniss

X-X-X-X

My heartbeat sounds in my ears and blood rushes rapidly to my head as I lower the letter from my face.

Holy shit.

A thousand moments surge through me, and I can feel the tears starting to prick at the corners of my eyes. I swipe at them hastily. I won’t let Katniss make me feel this way again, won’t let her force me to relive the hell I’d been through a year ago. She’s done enough to make me miserable.

How could she do this to me? How could she shatter my heart into tiny pieces and leave me to pick them up? How could she run off so quietly and abruptly? And how could she, after all these months, send me cryptic letters about our time together and some sort of message saying how she feels, how she misses me, how she loves me?

How does she expect me to recover from this?

It’s with this anger bubbling beneath my surface that I mentally say good-bye to the letters and rise from my rock perch. I’m stopped by a second piece of paper fluttering to the ground, and I furrow my brow before leaning down to grab it. Then I groan, because it’s late fall and the area where flesh meets plastic, right above my knee, is giving me shit today.

I examine the paper in my hands, squinting, trying to understand how there can be another letter when Katniss just signed off for good.

I check the date on the letter. It’s more recent-- way more recent. This is from two days ago.

I emit some sort of mix between a choke and a gasp at this realization, and I pat my pockets, ensuring that there are no more papers. There aren’t.

What more could Katniss possibly have to say?

X-X-X-X

I’m laughing imagining your face when you see this letter-- that is, if you ever see it. I know you’re probably confused right now. To be honest, I am too.

What the hell am I doing?

I’m writing this letter because the last one left too much unsaid. And I’m sure this one will, too. But I wanted to assure you that I’m not some heartless monster. I’m still stupidly in love with you, and I still miss you like crazy. I still want you back sometimes (often), and I wish I could fully explain our situation to you.

I do have my reasons, you know, for doing all of this. Our relationship ended for specific and very valid reasons, and although I can’t elaborate on them, they are existent. And they’re important to me. And I can’t tell you, because they wouldn’t make sense. They would seem inconsequential, trivial, like I was some silly girl making her way blindly through life.

And, well, maybe I am in some aspects. But not this. No, never this, never you; I’ve never been more sure in my life of anything than when I was with you. You made me feel strong, free, flying. And I had to put a stop to that for reasons that wouldn’t matter to you but hold the utmost value to me.

But maybe if you could walk in my shoes for a mile, you’d understand. Not that you were never empathetic. God, Peeta, you were so understanding. I just hope that can hold true in this specific situation. Because if you had led my life, if you had lived my experiences, it would all be crystal clear to you. But you didn’t. And I can’t expect anyone to get me.

I won’t say anything more. This is ridiculously vague, I know. But if that’s what it takes to keep you away, so be it.

Not that I necessarily want you to stay away.

                                                                                 Katniss

X-X-X-X

I don’t think I’ve ever been so god damn confused in my entire life.

First she says she misses me. Loves me. Wants me. Then she claims she’s not heartless? And finally, she gives the most ambiguous, bullshit reason for our breakup I’ve ever heard.

I really have never been so god damn confused in my entire life.

This whole thing has just been an emotional roller coaster. And I can’t seem to will myself off of it. I find myself warring between laughing and crying-- and maybe a little bit of screaming, too.

But two things are for certain.

I have to talk to Madge about these damn letters. Ask her when they’d been delivered, why she hid them.

And I have to find Katniss.