Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s been a quiet morning. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter came, as usual, for breakfast; Peeta did not. Almost every day he’s shown up for breakfast–always with a fresh loaf of bread–and again for dinner each night. But there have been a handful of times he’s missed a meal with no explanation as to why. I guess this is one of those mornings.

I take the plate of eggs from Sae and take a seat at my usual spot at the table. Sae’s granddaughter, May Belle, plops down into the seat next to me so we’re both facing the empty chair across from us. 

“Peeta?” she asks, cocking her head. I shake my head no, and her shoulders sag. 

The first time she came over with Sae after Peeta’s return to Twelve, Peeta had been surprised to see the little girl.

“Well, hello there,” he had said brightly, “I’m Peeta. What brings you here this fine morning?” 

“May Belle don’t talk much, dear. But don’t think she’s not listenin’ to every word,” Greasy Sae said. “We learned that the hard way a few years back when she started repeatin’ some unsavory things she heard ‘round the Hob.”

Peeta chuckled. “Well it’s very nice to meet you, May Belle. I’ll try not to teach you any new bad words,” he said with a wink. She giggled. It seemed that Peeta had made quite the impression on her; his name is one of the only words I’ve heard her say. 

“I guess he’s still sleepy,” I say. On instinct, I reach over and ruffle her hair the way I’d done to Prim hundreds of times. Suddenly the eggs on my plate taste like ash, but I continue to force them down my throat because I know Sae will stay and watch me until I’ve eaten a satisfactory amount. When I hit the point where I can’t eat any more, I set down my fork and look up at Sae, who takes pity on me and nods.

I’ve just returned to my spot on the couch when I hear Peeta hurry through the front door. I scan him up and down for any sign of injury or trouble while he removes his shoes. He looks a little disheveled, but overall fine.

“Good morning, sorry I’m late” he addresses the room as a whole. May Belle’s eyes light up; I turn my attention to a loose thread on the nearest blanket.

“Nonsense, you’re just in time,” says Sae. “I’ve got a plate fixed up for you right here.”

Even with my focus on the thread, I can practically feel Peeta’s questioning gaze at the sight of me on the couch rather than the kitchen. 

“She ate a bit already, but I’m sure a slice of that bread you brought would do her some good,” Sae tells him quietly. 

Peeta thanks Sae for the meal and she bids their goodbyes, the little girl waving at Peeta as she goes. He tentatively sits next to me on the couch and hands me a small plate with a slice of cinnamon bread while he tucks into his own plate of eggs.

“Did you sleep alright?” Peeta asks.

I shrug at his question. When was the last time I slept well?

“You still have nightmares, real or not real?” he asks after a while. 

“Real,” I say flatly. 

I guess Peeta has nothing more to add to that, so we continue on in the weighty silence we’ve become so accustomed to these days. Since he came back to District Twelve, despite his consistent appearance in my home, any conversation we’ve had has been awkward and stilted. In the morning he asks me how I slept, at dinner he’ll ask what I did that day, and that’s about the extent of our conversation until we repeat the cycle the next day. He hasn’t been cold to me necessarily–not like the way things were before the Victory Tour or when we talked in District Thirteen–but it’s nothing like the easy bond we shared before. Of course, nothing is like it was before. 

“Is it…not good?” says Peeta after some time. He’s frowning at the slice of bread I’ve been moving around my plate. I realize I’ve only taken one single bite.

“No, it's fine. It’s good,” I reassure him, but he still seems unconvinced. “I’m just not hungry.” Usually Peeta’s bread is the first thing I eat at each meal, but with his late arrival this morning and my limited appetite I can’t stomach another bite now.

He studies me for a moment, then gives me a soft smile.

“I’m going to try to make cheese buns soon. I made sure to add a lot of cheese to my next shipment from the Capitol, so I can have plenty of tries to get them right.”

I know he’s hoping this will provoke some reaction out of me, but all I can think about is the word try. As if he doesn’t remember.

His smile falters. “I don’t think it’ll take long, once I start making them. Usually muscle memory kicks in, although it’s easier when I have a recipe. But since the cheese buns were my own creation…” he trails off. He sighs and gives his head a little shake, then he smiles again, but there’s still a sadness in his eyes he can’t quite mask. “It’ll come back eventually. Everything always does.”

He gets up and takes both of our plates back into the kitchen, and I’m left to ponder what he just said. No, everything does not always come back. Some things are lost forever. Shouldn’t he know that better than anyone?

“The rest of the loaf’s in the kitchen for you if you get hungry later, okay?” he says. I nod my thanks. He squeezes my shoulder gently as he passes by the couch and heads towards the front door. It’s a strange gesture, but it’s oddly comforting. Friendly even. I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll see you for dinner,” he says, and then he’s gone.

I curl into the nearest blanket, nestle into myself, and try to conjure up the taste of cheese buns that now only exists in my mind.

Some time later I hear the door open again, but I know it’s too early for Sae to start dinner. Part of me almost hopes that Peeta decided to come back, but even with my back to the door I can tell that the footsteps I hear are not his familiar, uneven tread.

“Come on, I need your help with something” says a gruff voice behind me. Haymitch. I turn and stare at him. I haven’t seen him since we arrived back to District Twelve. He doesn’t look any better or worse than when we got home, so I guess that’s something.

“Where the hell have you been?” I say, glaring at him.

“My house, you know that thing thirty yards across from yours? Nothing was stopping you from popping by for a chat,” he says.

“I could say the same to you,” I mutter. He was sent here to watch over me, after all.

“Well I’m here now, aren’t I? Come on,” he says, gesturing towards the door. 

I don’t know why I follow him, but I do begrudgingly.

“Why can’t Peeta help you?” I grumble as I put my boots on.

“He’s busy,” he grunts.

“Doing what?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Keeping busy. Something the two of us need to get better at, apparently.”

I don’t want to see the burnt remains of my district again, but Haymitch doesn’t direct us towards the town anyway. Without any remaining landmarks it’s hard to get my bearings, but the path we take is relatively untouched by the bombings.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask.

“Train station. Weekly shipment just came in.”

“If you think I’m in any shape to carry your crates of booze–”

He cuts me off with a laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re not in any shape to carry a crate of air. They’ve got carts and volunteers for the heavy lifting.”

“Then what am I doing here?” I ask incredulously.

“You needed to get out of the house, and I needed to check in with you,” he shrugs.

“Figured it was easier this way.”

I’m so annoyed with him I decide that I won’t speak for the rest of the walk. Although truthfully, it has less to do with him and more to do with how out of breath I am already.

“So you decided to stick around, then?” he says after a while.

“I thought I was confined to the district until further notice,” I frown.

“You are. I just meant…” he hesitates, “it seems like you’ve changed your mind about that little hunger strike you went on in the Capitol.”

Oh. Sticking around. I haven’t really considered the alternative since returning to Twelve, but I guess that’s for the best. Since finding out I would not be executed, that I would be allowed to live out the remainder of my life in relative peace, I haven’t looked back on those days in isolation. Even if I’ve done a poor job of taking care of my life since then, I no longer feel the need to end it.

“Yeah, I guess I’m here to stay,” I say, with only a hint of bitterness.

“Good,” he responds quietly.

Up until now I hadn’t really considered the fact that I have a future. I’ve just been continuing my numb existence. I don’t feel that same drive I felt before to let it all end, I guess I should be grateful for that. But the alternative is almost just as daunting. The idea of living the rest of my life the way I have been, with my days mechanic and meaningless, seems miserable; the idea of “keeping busy”, as Haymitch put it, sounds exhausting. 

“How do you do it?” I ask suddenly, “How do you keep going with nothing left?” Despite his many faults, I know Haymitch understands this feeling. He’s spent most of his life in a house as big and empty as mine is now.

“Well I can’t say I’d recommend my method of coping if you can avoid it.” He sighs. “You’ve got to find something to care about again, just look around and pick one for starters.” He chuckles, “Although if I were you, I’d start with that lovesick little puppy who’s bringing you bread everyday.”

This stops me in my tracks. 

“Peeta doesn’t love me anymore,” I say firmly.

“Since when?” He’s smirking, which only makes me angrier, more hurt.

“Since…since the Capitol brainwashed it out of him, Haymitch!” I yell. “How could you–”

“Things change, sweetheart. You were in solitary a long time, and he was in treatment even longer. You know, he’s not confined to any one place. Why do you think he came back here, the lovely scenery?”

“This is still home. That doesn’t mean he…do you really think that he could…” I stutter.

I can’t make sense of any of it. Why did he come back? His family, the bakery, his memories…they’re all gone. He could’ve easily started over anywhere in Panem, but instead he’s here baking bread and planting primrose bushes.

“Look,” he starts again, “it’s no longer my job to speculate on the love lives of two teenagers, and thank God for that. All I know is that while you were on trial he had this moment where he fully came back to himself. It was really something. Maybe I can’t say for sure if he loves you–and it’s his business to fill you in on all that when he’s ready–I’m just saying that since that day he’s been…back.”

When we arrive at the train station I’m temporarily distracted from Haymitch’s new revelations. We didn’t see a single person on our walk from the Village to the station, but there’s a small crowd of people on the platform hustling around the neat line of crates. It’s mostly men I vaguely recognize from the Seam sorting crates and lifting them onto carts. I’m surprised by how many crates there are. Are there really this many people back in Twelve, and how are they affording to order all this from the Capitol? Come to think of it, I don’t even know how supplies are ordered. It hits me all at once how little I know about the development of our district in these past weeks, let alone the development of the nation I lost everything for.

Haymitch makes his way to the front of the line to find his shipment. I try to stay back as much as possible to avoid getting in the way of anyone. I pass the time by walking down the line reading the last names neatly printed on the side of every box. Occasionally I see a name I remember from a classmate or a neighbor, but it isn’t until about halfway that I see a name that has any real meaning to me. Three crates with the name Mellark .

My feet are moving toward them before my brain catches up, but by the time I reach Peeta’s boxes I decide that this is the right thing to do anyway. He mentioned the shipment this morning, but maybe he didn’t know it was coming today. Or even if he knows it’s today, there’s no harm in saving him the walk since I’m already here, right? He would do the same thing for me. It’s the right thing to do.

I wheel over a nearby cart, but immediately I remember Haymitch’s comments about my lack of strength and know that there’s no way I’ll be able to get these crates onto the cart. Stubbornly, I try anyway but without success.

“Need a hand?”

I turn around to see Thom frowning slightly at me. I nod, although he’s already started lifting the boxes anyway.

“Thanks,” I mutter. I feel embarrassed, remembering Thom bringing me back from the woods the other day. I hadn’t really cared until now, but I hate how weak I’ve gotten, I miss being able to run and climb and hunt.

“Don’t worry about it, these ones are especially heavy,” he says, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. “Any idea what’s in here?”

I shrug. “Flour, probably. Oh, and cheese,” I add.

“Must be a hell of a lot of cheese then,” Thom scoffs. He makes sure the crates are secure on my cart and that I’m able to push it well enough, then leaves with a “see you around, Katniss.”

Haymitch makes his way back over to me. He frowns when he sees my cart, then raises an eyebrow when he reads the name printed on the side.

“Guess my little pep talk worked, huh?” he says with a snort.

I scowl at him in return. I replay Haymitch’s words about Peeta over and over in my head. It’s not until we’re approaching Victor’s Village that I’m able to put some kind of words to the thoughts in my head.

“Haymitch…” I slow my pace as we approach Haymitch’s house. “Are you sure he’s back?” 

He studies me carefully for a moment. “You have to understand that he’ll never be exactly the same as before. He’s always going to have…lingering effects from what they did to him.”

I nod slowly. I know this, that Peeta will never make a full recovery from the hijacking. Even before what Haymitch told me today, I know he’s made far better progress than anyone expected. Still, I can’t help but wonder what Haymitch means by lingering effects. Does he mean that Peeta will still need to play Real or Not Real, or that he may occasionally try to rip out my throat again. Surely it can’t be the latter…can it?

“He’s not violent anymore,” Haymitch says, as if he was reading my mind, “that doctor of yours wouldn’t have let him come back if he thought it would put you in danger.”

I nod again.

“Then yes,” he says, “I’m sure he’s back.”

I know Haymitch would never sugarcoat things for my sake. If he says Peeta’s back he must believe it, but still it’s hard to trust that he’s right.

“Just give him a chance,” Haymitch reads my mind again, “maybe start by trying to hold a real conversation instead of giving him two word answers.” 

I scowl at him. “How do you know that?”

A shrug is all he says in response. He takes a flask out of his pocket and takes a long pull. Honestly, I’m impressed it took him this long to need it. “See you around, Sweetheart.” he calls from his front door.

I leave Peeta’s cart in front of the stairs leading up to his house, that way he can’t miss it the next time he leaves the house. A part of me wonders if I should knock on his door, but for some reason I’d rather him not know that I was the one who brought the cart.

I’m exhausted by the time I make it back through my door. All I want to do is collapse on the couch, but the smell of cinnamon from the kitchen is too tempting to ignore now. I generously slather two slices of Peeta’s bread with butter, and then a third and fourth. I end up eating over half the loaf before I finally settle into my nap on the couch.

I wake up drenched in sweat, panting from my nightmare. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 17 years old. My home is District 12…

Once I’ve calmed down enough I realize there’s still an hour or so before dinner. I decide to take a shower, grabbing another slice of bread as I head up the stairs, painstakingly keeping my eyes to the ground to avoid even a glimpse of my little sister’s bedroom. 

As I shower I think through the last conversation with Haymitch. He must’ve talked to Peeta recently, that’s the only way he would know about our conversations. Or lack thereof. Does Peeta go over there and what…complain about me? No, that’s not Peeta. Worry about me? Is that why Haymitch finally came to see me? I had thought Peeta’s and my interactions had been awkward on both sides, but as I think through this morning I realize how much Peeta has been trying, and how little I gave him back. 

I’m distracted the whole shower. Eventually my hand finds the dial and turns the water off, eventually I grab a towel and dry off, eventually I pull on a loose t-shirt and soft pants. I don’t bother to braid my hair, but I at least run a brush through it. All the while I think about Peeta, and is he really back, and how to talk to him if he is.

When I come downstairs Greasy Sae is already at the stove working on a stew but Peeta isn’t here yet. I take my seat at the table and wait. I’m suddenly nervous for Peeta’s arrival, which is stupid, because we eat together every day. 

“Hi,” I say, perhaps a touch too eager, as Peeta enters the kitchen.

“Hey,” he responds, slightly taken aback. His brow is furrowed with curiosity, but Sae cuts in before he can say anything else. 

“I made double the amount here, so the rest is going in your fridge for tomorrow’s dinner. It’s May Belle’s birthday so I’ll take the evening off to spend with her.”

“Why don’t you take the morning off, too, Sae?” Peeta offers, “I can come make breakfast tomorrow.” Kind, generous, thoughtful Peeta. Is he really back?

“That alright with you, dear?” Sae asks, turning to me.

I realize, with a start, that I had been staring at Peeta. “Of course. You should spend the day with her tomorrow.”

“Well thank you, that’s mighty nice of you to offer Peeta. Y’all have a nice night,” Sae says.

When we’re both settled at the table, I know I need to be the one to initiate conversation for once. I decide it’s safest to start with the question Peeta asks me every evening.

“So what did you do today?” I ask.

For a moment he stares at me in disbelief, like he can’t believe I’m really talking to him. He recovers quickly, though.

“Um, same as most days I guess. I baked in the morning, painted in the afternoon,” he says. 

I’m glad to hear he’s painting again, but I don’t want to talk about the nightmares he’s undoubtedly been painting, not yet.

“What did you bake?” I ask.

“Well I made the cinnamon loaf for you…” He glances over to the counter where he left the bread this morning, and he’s surprised, and maybe a little pleased, to see how much of it is gone. “Which I guess you weren’t lying about liking after all,” he adds with a smirk.

“I got hungry,” I say defensively.

Peeta looks like he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes at me. “Oh, I also made a dill loaf that I ended up giving to Haymitch,” he adds.

That all but confirms my suspicions that it was a conversation with Peeta that drove Haymitch to my house this afternoon. But suddenly another memory is triggered in my mind.

“You’ve made those loaves on the same day before, real or not real?” I ask.

“Katniss, I bake a lot of bread.” He gives a nervous laugh. “Even at my best I don’t exactly remember what I baked on specific days,” he says. Maybe he can tell by my face that this matters to me, because he adds, “I’m sure you’re right though, if you remember it I’m sure it happened.”

“I don’t know for sure that you did. It just reminded me…” I trail off, afraid of pushing the conversation too far.

“Reminded you of what?” he prods gently.

“The day I broke my ankle, when you carried me to bed,” I whisper, despite the fact that we’re the only two people in the house. I search his face and find a spark of recognition behind his eyes. But mostly he just looks curious, so I continue, “I pulled your hand up to my face and…it smelled like cinnamon and dill. I remember thinking those must have been the loaves you baked that day.”

He‘s quiet for a long time, maybe trying to recall the events of that day. Finally, I look up to see his mouth creep into a tentative smile and he says, “you have a… remarkable memory.”

“I guess the details just…stuck better when you were gone and they were all I had left,” I admit, dropping my gaze to avoid his. My face feels hot all of a sudden. To my surprise, he reaches across the table and covers my hand with his own.

“Well, I’m here now,” he whispers. I look first at our hands, then up to his blue eyes. They’re all kindness and gentleness and so Peeta.

“I guess you are, aren’t you?” I manage my first real smile in months. I am rewarded with an even bigger smile from him; the kind that lights up his features, making it impossible to look away. He gives my hand a light squeeze before pulling back to return to the meal.

The rest of dinner goes well enough. We’re still quiet at times, still testing the waters, still avoiding hard topics. But the steady flow of light conversation is so much better than the awkward silences we’ve had the past few weeks. Peeta guesses correctly that I was the one who dropped off his weekly shipment and thanks me. Then he tells me an elaborate story about a goose that followed him the whole way home from the station last week. 

“Damn thing finally ended up attacking my leg,” he says dramatically. “Unlucky for him it was my left leg, think it hurt him a whole lot more than it hurt me. But I’ve got bite marks in my pant leg now,” he grumbles.

“You know, they’ve got a name for geese like that,” I say.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” he asks.

“Dinner.”

The corners of Peeta’s eyes crinkle and he lets out a laugh that fills my body with warmth. And then suddenly I’m laughing too. I can’t remember the last time I laughed, really laughed. I wonder if the feeling is just as foreign to Peeta. I doubt he’s had many opportunities to laugh as of recently. We laugh another minute until at the same time we both realize our bowls have been empty for quite some time.

Peeta glances at the clock. “I should probably head home,” he says reluctantly.

I’m trying to find some excuse to keep him here longer, but I come up empty. So instead I walk him to the door, already dreading the moment he leaves.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, hovering in the doorway.

“See you tomorrow,” I confirm. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to throw my arms around him and ask him to stay, but I stop myself. It’s still too soon for that. Instead, I awkwardly settle on squeezing his shoulder the same way he did this morning.

He laughs and says, “Goodnight, Katniss,” before shutting the door behind him.

What now? After dinner I usually return to the couch until morning, but it’s still pretty early in the evening and I still have some energy left. I go back to the kitchen and clean the dishes from the day. I leave fresh bowls of food and water out for Buttercup. I eat another slice of cinnamon bread for dessert. 

Finally, with nothing left to fill my time, I decide I might as well lay down for the night. When I see my little nest of blankets on the couch, however, I’m hit with one final energy burst that instead carries me up the stairs to my bedroom.

My bed still sits unmade from the one night I’ve spent in it since coming back. I pull on clean pajamas, brush my teeth and braid my hair, and on a whim I open the window a few inches before falling into bed. The exhaustion finally hits me as I curl up under the covers. It’s a good exhaustion, though, for once. I can’t help the small smile that comes to my face as I let the exhaustion win and fade to sleep, hoping tonight for dreams of cinnamon and dill and Peeta’s laughter.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I wake up from the first full night’s sleep I’ve gotten in ages. I think I might’ve even had a good dream. It feels as though the smell of fresh bread, the one I will forever associate with Peeta, still lingers from the dream even as I begin waking up in earnest. I know I should get out of bed soon, I can hear Sae already at work in the kitchen, but the warmth of my bed and the lingering happiness from my dreams are too tempting to resist.

That is, until I remember Peeta insisting on giving Sae the morning off today and that he is, in fact, the source of the delicious smell coming from my kitchen. With this realization I pull myself out of bed, haphazardly pulling on clean clothes from my dresser.

I’m almost giddy as I start to make my way down the stairs, but my heart pinches as I remember the last time I was this giddy to see Peeta. How I was completely blindsided by his hands around my throat. I stop midway down the stairs and take several deep breaths, reminding myself that things are different now. Peeta’s back now. Still, it’s also worth remembering to proceed with caution, that one night of laughter doesn’t make us healed from the damage we both incurred.

“Good morning,” I say as I enter the kitchen. 

“Good morning, he replies with a bright smile, “How’d you sleep?”

“No nightmares,” I say proudly. 

“That’s great, Katniss!” his smile grows even wider. A small timer goes off on the counter. “And perfect timing,” he says as he pulls a tray out of the oven and holds it out for my inspection. I gasp when I see what’s on it. 

A dozen cheese buns. 

“You remembered?” I say hopefully.

“I told you it would come back to me,” he says with a hint of pride in his voice. “They should still taste the same, but you’re the expert so you’ll have to let me know.” 

Immediately I make my way around the counter to get a better look at them. They look perfect to me, already my mouth is watering. I know I should wait until they’ve cooled off more, but I can't resist plucking one from the tray and holding the warm treat in my hands.

“Thank you,” I whisper. 

Peeta chuckles. “Well don’t thank me yet, they could still taste like garbage.”

I roll my eyes at him. Once the bun feels cool enough that I can’t wait any longer to try it, I close my eyes as I take a bite, wanting to fully savor the taste.

Immediately my mind is flooded with several happy memories, all the memories I had locked in the back of my mind when he was taken from me. I remember the first time Peeta made cheese buns, and he laughed as I ate half the plate in one sitting. And all those days I spent watching him draw in our plant book. Days where Peeta made me feel safe and loved and happy. It’s only now that I can truly feel the weight of what I lost when I lost him. 

When I open my eyes again he’s watching me with wide, hopeful eyes and a small smile. I want to tell him that it’s perfect. That it’s like nothing ever changed and we never changed and that he is still the boy with the bread he’s always been to me.

Instead I burst into tears.

Immediately his smile falls. “Oh, Katniss…” he’s standing there looking helpless. “Katniss, if they’re not right I can try again. Please don’t…don’t cry.”

Even in the midst of my tears I could almost laugh at how ridiculous the entire thing is. I’m standing here sobbing, still stupidly holding the cheese bun out in front of me, and Peeta thinks it’s because he made it wrong. Quickly I drop it back on the tray and try to regain some of my composure.

“It’s not…it’s not…” Another wave of sobs hits me, and I frantically try to gesture at the tray to indicate that there’s nothing wrong with his baking or his mind.

“What is it?” he asks softly. I look into his blue eyes. They’re so clear, so full of concern and care and maybe love. Studying me in a way I never thought he’d look at me again.

“I just missed you so much,” I whisper. 

Before I can help myself I throw my arms around him and hold him as tight as I can. I feel all the tension drain from his body, and he breathes a soft “Oh,” right near my ear. Then his arms are around me too, one hand in my hair, the other lightly rubbing my upper back.

I don’t know how long we stand there locked in each other’s embrace. It’s clear that neither of us is in any hurry to let go. I bask in the steadiness of his arms that was not there the last time he held me. When my sobs have finally subsided, I hear Peeta sniff and pull back slightly to see his face. I hadn’t realized that he was crying too. 

“Peeta, I’m so sorry,” I say quietly.

“Sorry?” he says, “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“Yes I do. I’m sorry I let them separate us at that tree. I’m sorry I ever let you out of my sight.”

“Katniss, you don’t–”

“Please,” I whisper, “let me say this.” He sighs but gives a small nod, allowing me to continue before I lose my nerve. “I’m sorry they left you behind. I’m sorry I didn’t turn that damn hovercraft around myself the second I realized you weren’t on it.” He gives a watery chuckle at that.

“I’m sorry that they hurt you, Peeta. They hurt you because of me.” Peeta cups my face in his hand and wipes away my tears with his thumb. “And when you were rescued I didn’t help you. I should’ve helped you, Peeta, I should’ve been there. You were hurting and I just–I treated you like–” I’m overcome by sobs again and Peeta pulls me back into our embrace so that my face is nuzzled in his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper one more time.

“Shh, Katniss I know you are. It’s okay now, everything’s okay now,” he says soothingly while stroking my hair. “I’m sorry, too,” he whispers.

“Peeta, no–”

“Let me say this,” he says firmly. I nod into his neck, his grip on me tightens ever so slightly. “I’m sorry I let you out of my sight too, and for everything after. I know I said some awful things to you, Katniss…”

“You weren’t–”

“I wasn't myself,” he finishes for me, “and I hope you know I didn’t mean a word of it.” He pulls back again and tips my chin up so that our eyes meet. “But I can’t take back what was said and I’m so sorry, Katniss.”

His eyes travel down my face to my neck, and I watch as tears fall from his eyes. I know we’re both thinking about the same thing.

“I’m so sorry–” he chokes out.

“No,” I say firmly, “No Peeta that wasn’t you.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t! It wasn’t your heart or your mind. Look at me,” I say, grabbing for both his hands and intertwining his fingers between mine. His gaze meets mine again. “They hurt you and broke you and twisted you into something evil, but you found your way back anyway. I forgave you, the real you, for all of it a long time ago. ”

More tears roll down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he whispers. I wipe the tears from his face. We stand there another moment just holding each other and collecting ourselves.

“Okay, enough blubbering. We can’t let perfectly good food get cold,” I say matter-of-factly, swiping away the remaining tears on my face. Peeta laughs. I grab my half eaten bun from the tray and finish it greedily. 

“These are perfect, by the way,” I say, sinking into the chair across from him at the table. 

Breakfast is full of soft smiles and shy glances at each other. I’m a little embarrassed about my breakdown now, but I’m glad it happened. It’s what we both needed to shatter the wall that had formed between us after everything. 

We each eat our fill of cheese buns. Peeta reminds me to pace myself as I’m reaching for a fifth since he still has an absurd amount of cheese left. 

“Any big plans for the day,” he asks as he wraps up the remaining buns.

“I’m going hunting,” I decide on the spot, surprising myself as much as Peeta. He knows I haven’t made another attempt to go hunting since the day he returned. “What about you?” Truthfully, I don’t think I’d mind if he wanted to come with me. I know he’ll scare all of the game away, but I have a feeling my attempt to hunt today will be more of a glorified walk anyway.

“Not much,” he responds, “I was thinking about making a cake for May Belle. I don’t really know much about her so I don’t know how I’ll decorate it though.”

“I’m sure she won’t care once she knows you made it,” I say with a smirk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Peeta, I think May Belle has a little crush on you.”

“No she doesn’t!” he laughs. “Katniss, she's six.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Right, and six year olds never have crushes.”

We lock eyes for a moment. Peeta shakes his head, half amused, half exasperated. I grab my father’s jacket and my bow and arrows as Peeta pulls his shoes on. We walk out the front door together.

“Should I skip the cake then?” he asks, smirking. “I mean, I don’t want to lead her on.” 

“No, she’ll love it. I’ll try to find a gift for her too, we can bring them over together before dinner.” I say. He walks with me as far as the entry to the village. I don’t ask him to come with me, no matter how much I might want him to.

“She likes blue, I think. She plays with the blue yarn from my house.” I tell him.

“Thanks, that helps,” he says. “How long will you be gone?”

“Until I get tired, probably won’t take very long,” I joke sarcastically.

“Don’t overdo it.” he says seriously.

“I won’t.” 

He nods, but there’s still concern in his eyes. “Blue?” he confirms.

“Like your eyes,” I say in my most exaggerated flirtatious tone.

He lets out a burst of laughter. “See you later,” he says.

I do my best to keep my word to Peeta and not overexert myself. By the time I make it into the woods I’m already tired, but I’m determined to stick it out for a little bit today. I don’t actually hunt much. I walk around the woods, I climb short distances up and down trees, I examine the plants to see what’s in season. I could stay here all day if I didn’t have to worry about conserving energy to get back home. After about an hour I know I’ve hit my limit, and I begin my trek back to Victor’s Village. As I’m approaching the edge of the forest, I see a squirrel dart up a tree and freeze. I quickly notch an arrow and take aim. The squirrel hits the ground with a satisfying thump , with my arrow right through its eye.

It’s only after I’ve deposited my jacket and hunting gear by the door that I remember I was going to get a gift for May Belle. I had meant to at least put together a bouquet of flowers for her, but I guess I’ll have to improvise now. I’m no good at flower arranging anyway, even if it’s just for a six year old.

As I prep the squirrel, I try to think of what I could do for the little girl. I realize, miserably, that there might be something in Prim’s room that could work. Is it worth checking? I sigh, I’ll have to go into her room eventually. I might as well get it over with.

This is a mistake, I think as I cross the threshold into her bedroom. Her school bag hangs over the side of a chair, full of books she’ll never read. There’s a small hamper of clothes she’ll never wash. Her bed is perfectly made; she probably slept in my mother’s room all throughout the Quell. It’s like a perfect record of her last day in District Twelve. If it wasn’t for the fine layer of dust covering every surface I’d still expect her to come bursting through the door any second now. I make no attempt to wipe away the tears that fall as I head deeper into the room.

Her dresser is littered with artifacts of her short little life. There’s a journal, her impressive little collection of ribbons, my father’s shaving mirror, and an assortment of notes scattered around the surface. Things that I will no doubt sort through later, but for now I want to leave the space as untouched as possible. It seems she tacked up the more precious bits of paper to the wall. There’s family photos, one of the three of us at the dinner on the last night of the victory tour, another of Prim and I hugging as we reunited when I came home from the Games. Clearly they were taken by Capitol cameras, but I wonder how she got ahold of them. There’s also sketches–clearly by Peeta’s hand–of Buttercup and Lady. I’ll have to ask him when he did those for her. 

My eyes settle on a blue ribbon and I decide that that will have to do, because I can’t stand another second in this room, not yet. I carefully slip it off of the dresser and bound down the stairs. Once I reach the bottom step, I collapse into sobs for the second time today. 

Eventually there’s a soft knock at the door. When I don’t answer, Peeta slowly opens the door and sticks his head in. He rushes in when he finds me still huddled on the stairs.

“Katniss?” he asks tentatively.

All I can manage is to hold up the ribbon and choke out something that sounds enough like Prim’s name. He sits on the stair next to me and wraps an arm around me. He doesn’t try to make me talk any more, he just holds me until my sobs subside.

“I was trying to find a present for May Belle,” I say miserably. “I can’t just give her a ribbon, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s ok, the cake can be from both of us,” he says kindly.

“But I just wanted to do something. After everything Sae’s done,” I say. “I guess I just forgot Prim only lived here when she was twelve. I thought she’d have…toys or something,” I add stupidly.

At this, Peeta’s eyes light up with an idea. 

“Do you have a needle, thread, and scissors?” he asks. 

I bring the supplies back to him, intrigued, and find that he’s removed the sock from his artificial foot. I frown at this, confused, but Peeta just shrugs in response. “Don’t worry, it’s just decorative anyway.” I watch as he starts cutting his sock into bizarre pieces. He’s working quickly, but with precision.

“Can you sew?” he asks.

“Not very well,” I admit.

He nods and starts sewing the pieces himself. I haven’t the faintest idea of what he’s making, but when he sends me off to find a throw pillow I “don’t care about”, I go without question.

I continue to watch him in awe. He's working as if he’s done this hundreds of times. It’s only after he’s added the stuffing from the pillow that the project begins to take shape. He’s transformed his sock into the shape of a person, with arms and legs and a head. When he’s satisfied with his work he holds it up for my inspection.

“It’s a baby doll,” he says proudly. I gape at him, I can’t imagine where he learned to do that in a house of three boys. “We can tell her you made it, she won’t know any better.” We find a marker for Peeta to draw on a face, and I tie the ribbon in a bow around the baby’s head. I have the idea to use the now empty pillow case as a blanket to wrap the baby in. Overall, it’s a very respectable looking doll, considering it was just a sock a few moments ago.

“Thank you,” I say to Peeta.

“Anytime,” he says dismissively, as if making baby dolls out of socks is a secret hobby of his. 

Peeta stops in his house to pick up the cake then we walk together to Sae and May Belle’s house. Luckily Peeta knows which one it is, since I haven’t taken the time to acquaint myself with our new neighbors.

When we knock at the door, Greasy Sae answers. She’s confused for a moment until Peeta lifts the cover off of the cake box and shows it to her. Her eyes well up with tears but she blinks them away quickly.

“May Belle,” she calls up the stairs, “you’ve got visitors!”

The little girl appears at the top of the stairs, clutching her little ball of yarn. Then she bounds down when she sees the two of us. Peeta kneels down in front of her and shows her the cake. It’s a simple cake with light blue frosting and darker blue trim with “Happy Birthday May Belle” on top. Peeta shows her how the cake matches the yarn in her hand. Her eyes go wide as she looks at it, she’s probably never tasted cake in her life. 

“Katniss made you a present, too,” Peeta says as he hands the cake to Sae.

“Here you go,” I mimic Peeta’s posture and squat down in front of her. “It’s a baby doll.”

I didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to get any wider, but they do. Immediately she hugs the little doll to her chest and quietly says, “Baby!”

Peeta gives me a little thumbs up as I stand to join him and Sae again.

“Thank you two, I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble.” says Sae

“No trouble at all, we’ve got nothing but time on our hands,” says Peeta. 

The little girl holds the doll up for her grandmother to see.

“Katniss, you made this?” she asks, clearly impressed.

“Peeta…helped,’ I say weakly. I know he wants me to take the credit for it but it doesn’t feel right when all I did was find supplies and stare at him like a dead fish.

Sae raises her eyebrows. “Well next time your mother calls, try not to mention that I left the two of you alone for one day and you made a baby,” she says under her breath. Peeta gives a little snort of laughter, but we both blush. 

Sae gives her thanks again and the two of us head back to my house. I tell Peeta about the squirrel I shot as we reheat the stew from yesterday. He tells me about his visit to Haymitch’s house this afternoon and how he got roped into a game of chess. A few minutes after we sit down to dinner, I finally blurt out the question that I’ve been wondering all evening.

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re so good at making baby dolls out of socks?”

He laughs. “Delly. Her parents owned the shoe shop, they sometimes had extra socks laying around, if a pair had a hole in them or something. Her mother showed her how to turn them into dolls and then she made me help.” 

I smile at the image of Peeta as a child, happily sewing little dolls with his friend. 

“She went through a pretty intense baby phase for a while there,” he laughs again.

“We all did,” I say. He raises his eyebrows at me in disbelief. “What?” I say defensively.

“Nothing…I just can’t picture you with a baby doll,” he says.

“Well, my parents couldn’t afford fancy toys, and it turns out a couple of spoiled merchants were using up all the defective socks in the district,” I retort with a scowl.

“I wish I’d known,” he replies, “I would’ve made you a dozen baby dolls.” 

My eyes meet his and I hear Haymitch’s words– lovesick little puppy– in my mind. I quickly avert my gaze as I blush for the second time tonight. We both stand up to deposit our dishes in the sink.

“I had the real thing,” I say quietly, “As a four year old, having a baby sister to play with was the best thing I could ask for.”

“Having you as a big sister was the best thing she could’ve asked for too,” he says gently. 

“I’m not a big sister anymore,” I whisper, realizing this fact for the first time. Tears threaten my eyes again, but I’ve cried enough today already.

“Yes you are, Katniss. They’re still a part of us, even if they’re gone. I’m still a baker’s son, and you’re still the best big sister.”

He pulls me into a hug, and we’re back where we started the day. I can’t believe I wasted all that time shutting him out. I really, really missed him. As I walk him to the door again, I smile to myself as Peeta’s metal foot clicks loudly against the hardwood floor without a sock to dampen it. 

Chapter Text

If I had thought about it, I should’ve known the nightmares would be bad last night. Between my emotional morning with Peeta and going through Prim’s room, I opened my mind to all kinds of memories that I had previously been keeping locked away. They’re constant tonight, bringing fresh new terrors every time I drift off. By the time the sun has started to rise, I give up on sleep entirely.

I need to get out of here. It feels good to pull on hunting clothes at the crack of dawn. Well maybe not good, but familiar. Downstairs, I grab one of the remaining cheese buns to eat on my way and stuff the other two in my bag. I realize I should probably let Peeta and Sae know where I’ve gone in case they beat me to the house. I grab a piece of scrap paper and jot a quick note.

Almost nobody in the Village is awake yet, although I notice there’s a light on at Peeta’s house. If you ignore the part where I woke up screaming my head off, it’s peaceful starting the morning this way. I haven’t gone to the woods this early since before the games, when I hunted out of necessity to keep us fed rather than necessity to keep myself sane.

I can feel my stamina slowly rebuilding after months of abusing my body. I climb a little higher, walk a little further, and stay a little longer in the woods. Three hours later I leave the woods with two more squirrels in tow, already skinned and ready to eat.

Back in my kitchen, the time for breakfast has come and gone. I find the plate of cheese buns that I left empty has been replenished, with a new note placed in front of it.

Try not to eat them all at once. Let me know when you’re back, please. - Peeta

At some point my phone was moved from the study into the kitchen, probably in a vain attempt to get me to answer it more often. I dial Peeta’s number immediately.

“Hello?” Peeta answers.

“Hi, it’s me,” I say.

“Katniss? Is everything ok?”

“I’m fine, you just said to let you know when I got back from the woods.”

“Oh,” he laughs, “you could’ve just come over here, you know? I’m just painting.”

“I’ve never been to your house,” I say plainly.

“Do you need directions?” he says sarcastically. 

“No I just mean–I didn’t know if you’d want me to just come by.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Should I call before I come over to your house?”

“No!” I say, exasperated, “You’re always welcome here. But I’ve never been invited to your house so I wasn’t sure.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Well, then consider this an open invitation to my house. Any time, night or day, no phone call needed.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

I bring the three squirrels I’ve shot with me over to Peeta’s house. He greets me at the door, smiling at the sight of me with squirrels like I used to bring to the bakery. He takes them gratefully, and immediately drops them into a pot on his stove to start cooking.

His house is structurally identical to mine in reverse. Somehow, though, it couldn’t look more different. Where the furniture in my house has remained unchanged from the way it was placed when I received the house, Peeta has rearranged everything. Although it’s hard to really tell, since nearly every available surface has a painting sitting on it. There must be at least a hundred paintings in the living room alone.

Peeta rubs the back of his neck nervously as he watches me look around the room.

“Welcome to the inside of my mind,” he says dryly.

“It’s kind of a mess,” I say jokingly. He gives a loud burst of laughter.

“That’s an understatement,” he says with a sigh. He goes over towards an easel with a half completed painting on it. “Feel free to move anything out of the way if you want to sit.”

“Can I look at them?” I ask.

“Uh,” he says, “Well…yeah. Just keep in mind a lot of them are pretty…graphic.”

“Right,” I say. I appreciate the warning, but it’s not like I haven’t seen my share of terrible things.

I spend the rest of the morning moving around the room in no particular pattern, looking at each painting. Some scenes I know instantly, like the bright pink sky or the lightning tree in the clock arena. There are scenes of sterile white rooms, and I find it disturbing how hard it is to tell if the rooms are in the Capitol or District Thirteen. The worst ones are the ones that bear no resemblance to reality whatsoever, these must be visions from when the tracker jacker venom was in his system. They’re horrible and hard to look at, but even still I have to admire how impressive Peeta’s skill is to be able to capture them so precisely. 

And, as before, there are paintings of me everywhere. I’m skin and bones with matted hair, and a mutt with fangs and glowing red eyes, and a head asleep on a lap bathed in the colors of sunset.

“You hate my paintings, real or not real?” says Peeta after a while.

“Not real,” I say as I’m mesmerized by a painting of the beach the way it looked on that last night. I glance over at Peeta to see him looking a little troubled. 

“Oh!” I say, “I mean real that I said that once. But I take it back now. These are too important to hate.” He smiles softly, and I think he might even blush a little.

As I look around the room again, I suddenly realize that every painting in here depicts things that happened during or after the Quell.

“Peeta, have you done all of these since coming home?” I ask, half horrified, half impressed. 

“No…I did most of them in the Capitol. After the war,” he clarifies, “They had an art therapy room at the facility I was in.”

“Facility?” I ask, frowning.

“Officially it was the ‘Rehabilitation Center for Trauma and Memory Care’, but that’s a mouthful,” he explains. “Haymitch just called it the looney bin, which was not well received.”

Peeta takes a step back from his painting, nods slightly, then starts gathering up his surrounding supplies. “Are you hungry? The squirrels should be ready now, I could probably turn them into a decent stew.”

“I can help,” I say, heading to the kitchen with him. Peeta leaves me to take care of the squirrels while he starts to chop up the vegetables.

“So were you in this facility the whole time I was on trial?” I ask.

“Kind of. Technically, once you check in you can’t leave until you’re discharged, but since Dr. Aurelius works there I was given a little more flexibility. I split my time between the Training Center and the facility until you were released.”

“Why were you at the Training Center?” I ask.

“Mostly just keeping an eye on you, I guess,” he mutters.

“Oh.” I frown. “I mean, I knew I was being watched, but I assumed it was just a panel of anonymous doctors.”

“Well there were definitely some of those, too,” he chuckles darkly, “But, yeah, Haymitch was up there with you the whole time. And eventually I was able to make a deal with Aurelius so I could stay with you as much as possible.”

Peeta fills me in more about my trial while the stew cooks. There wasn’t much they could do, but he and Haymitch were in charge of providing as much insight on me as they could to try and keep me alive. Peeta occasionally worked with the kitchens to try and make the food he knew would tempt me most into eating. Apparently Peeta made all the bread that was sent up to me himself, which I admit is one of the only things I remember eating the entire time. He jokes that he came dangerously close to just sending up a burnt loaf of bread to let me know he was there, but there were incredibly strict rules preventing any communication with me, and he was afraid any perceived breach could result in my execution. He wanted to be there when I was released, but he had a breakdown on the night they announced that the verdict was coming in the morning. After that, Dr. Aurelius decided to keep him in the treatment facility full time until he was deemed fit to be sent home. 

“So what did you do in this facility?” I ask as we sit down with our bowls of stew.

“Just lots of different kinds of therapy, mostly. Art therapy, group therapy, exposure therapy, you name it,” he says.

“Did it help?” I ask.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean by the time I was there full time I had already…” he stops and reconsiders his words. “I was already feeling a lot better. But still, those last few weeks helped me learn a lot of different coping mechanisms so I can live a relatively normal life as a hijacked person. ” 

I can tell by his tone that that last phrase must’ve been something repeated to him frequently. 

“Do you…” I start, then think better of it. Peeta’s already offering me so much, I don’t want to overstep. “Nevermind.”

“What?” he asks. When I shake my head he says, “Katniss, you know you can ask me anything, right? We’ve been through too much together for me to have secrets from you, so anything you want to know, I’ll answer.” He gives me an encouraging smile, which is enough to push me to ask the question that’s been gnawing at me for several days.

“Do you feel like your old self?” Do you love me, I decide, is better left unsaid.

“I do…” he says slowly, as if he’s considering it for the first time. “Most of the time I do. But it’s…different. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like…I remember everything now and I can mostly tell the real from the not real. And in a lot of ways I do feel like myself. But after everything…I don’t think I’ll ever feel exactly how I did before. Does that make any sense?”

Not really , I think, but I nod anyway. 

“You can ask me anything, too, by the way.” I tell him, “I’m not always good at saying the things I should but…if you ask I promise I’ll answer with complete honesty.”

He smiles. “Well in that case, what do you think of the stew? Honestly ?”

“It’s really good. Is this how you’d normally cook squirrels?” I ask. I’ve never particularly enjoyed eating squirrel meat, but whatever Peeta put in this is delicious.

“Yeah, this was the standard recipe in the Mellark household,” he says with a fond smile, “We had to learn how to make them taste less…squirrely, so my mom didn’t catch on.”

“What, she didn’t like my squirrels?” I say in mock offense.

“No, she just didn’t like my dad giving away good bread for them.”

“Well, I think that bread was a perfectly reasonable trade for this stew. We could give Greasy Sae a run for her money.”

He laughs. “Oh, speaking of which, I talked to her this morning and she’s going to stop coming for breakfast,” he says. “Since I’m already baking every morning and she’s planning to start feeding the rebuilding volunteers, we figured it made sense. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Maybe you can teach me to make food like this and I can stop needing her for dinner, too.”

He shrugs. “You kill, I cook. That’s our deal, right?”

“Right,” I say, smiling. He smiles brightly back at me until his eyes flit over to the clock above his stove.

“You’d better head back to your house,” he says.

“What happened to my open invitation?” I ask incredulously.

He chuckles. “I’m not rescinding it. I’m just saying it’s almost one o’clock.”

“And?” I frown.

“And it’s Wednesday,” he says, bemused, as if this clears everything up.

“And…what happens at one o’clock on Wednesday?”

His face falls. “Katniss! Are you still ignoring your therapy calls?” he groans.

“Oh. No, I answer…sometimes. I just didn’t realize they were on a schedule.” 

He relaxes a bit. “Your calls are on Monday and Wednesday at one, mine are Wednesdays at two,” he explains. 

“Why do you get less than me?” I ask petulantly.

“Because I didn’t shoot the president?” he suggests. I roll my eyes at him. “You see, Katniss, that’s kind of the goal of therapy. The more you do, the less you should need to do.”

“Maybe, but my method works just as well,” I say as I begrudgingly lace my boots back up, “If I don’t do my therapy, then I don’t have to do therapy.” He rolls his eyes at me.

“Promise you’ll answer?” he says seriously.

“Fine,” I scowl.

He smiles, “You can come back here at three, if you want.”

“See you at three,” I confirm, then turn to trudge back across the lawn to my house.

The phone starts ringing as soon as I enter the house. I answer on the third ring.

“Hello, Katniss. How are you doing today?”

“I’m alright,” I answer, and for once it’s more true than false.

I like Dr. Aurelius well enough, even if I don’t see the point of these calls. I like that he never really pushes me to talk about anything. I’ve talked to him maybe three or four times now, but the calls are always the same. He asks how I am, then he asks a few questions about my general wellbeing–these vary from call to call. Then he asks if there’s anything I want to talk about, I say no, and we hang up.

Today he asks when the last time I ate was, and if I’ve tried going back to the woods yet. He seems genuinely pleased with my answers today.

“Well, Katniss, It’s nice to hear you’re venturing out a bit. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” I don’t answer right away. “Katniss?” he prods gently.

“What am I supposed to get out of these calls?” I ask.

“Well, I find that with most things you get out what you put in,” he replies calmly. “What are you hoping to get out of these calls?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just…I want to understand how this whole therapy thing is supposed to work,” I say.  

“Well, every patient is different, and there’s no one way for therapy to ‘work’.” He’s annoyingly even-tempered.

“What do you and Peeta talk about?” I try.

“The details of my sessions with patients are entirely confidential,” he says calmly.

I groan loudly. “Can’t you just tell me what I’m supposed to do so I can start feeling better?”

He’s quiet for a moment, just long enough for me to wonder if he hung up on me. Then he sighs. “I’ll admit I haven’t been handling your case as well as I should. It was clear that you weren’t ready to talk, and I knew any attempts to push you before you were ready would result in you shutting me out.” 

That’s probably fair. For someone I’ve barely spoken to, he’s sure got me figured out. 

“At the very least, I need to get you through your required hours, so I’ve allowed you to take the easy way out so far. But if you want to start getting something out of these sessions, and you’re ready to put in the work, then I think it may be best for us to start over.”

I consider his words carefully. Am I ready to put in the work? I’m not sure. Instead I get caught up on another phrase he said.

“What do you mean required hours?” I ask.

“As part of the deal for your release, you are required to complete a hundred hours of therapy sessions with me,” he states.

“How many have I done so far?” I ask.

“Counting today, about fourteen minutes.” He chuckles. “I may have…padded the numbers a bit when I submit your evaluations. But if we’re going to begin conducting sessions in earnest, I can’t do that anymore. I’ll need you to actually try.”

I hesitate. “And what does…actually trying look like in this case?”

“It means we’ll start over. I’ll treat you as if you are any other patient who genuinely wants to work toward resolving her trauma. When I call on Monday I’ll administer my normal first session procedures, then from there we’ll evaluate your needs and determine your treatment plan. How does that sound?”

It sounds like a lot of nonsense to me, but he seems like he knows what he’s talking about so I tell him it sounds alright. He tells me, in the meantime, just to keep going through the motions, and reminds me that I’m welcome to call outside of my scheduled hours if any issues arise. He lets me go early, but warns me that starting Monday we will be using the full hour.

The next hour and a half is excruciatingly long. I take a shower, I make my bed, I eat a cheese bun. I watch the clock. Tick tock. I even sit and dangle a piece of yarn around Buttercup for a few minutes. He gets bored of this quickly, I can’t blame him. I think about Peeta telling me how Haymitch watched over me during my imprisonment. I decide to bring one of my hidden bottles of liquor over to him, but he’s passed out so I just leave it on his table. I call my mother, but she must not be home. It’s the first time I’ve wished I had more numbers to call. Then I remember that half the people I would want to talk to are dead anyway. Tick. Tock. I make a project of organizing our remaining jars of dried plants and homemade remedies, looking up the unfamiliar ones in our plant book. I start neatly printing the use of each jar onto new labels, since I don’t have my mother or Prim to take care of our ailments anymore.

As soon as the clock strikes three, I abandon my project and make my way across the lawn again. I burst through his door, quickly kicking off my boots in his doorway.

“You know, no one told me I have to do a hundred hours of that nonsense,” I say loudly as I move further into the house to find him. “If I had known I would’ve at least–” 

I come up short at the sight of him. He’s sitting hunched over on the edge of the couch, rocking back and forth and muttering under his breath. His hands are clutching his hair so tightly I’m afraid he might pull it out. 

“Peeta?” I say gently. At this his eyes snap up to me, wide with fear.

“Katniss, you need to get out of here,” he urges me. I make no move to leave, though. After a moment his eyes shut tightly, like he’s in pain.

“Peeta!” I run over to him, kneeling down in front of him. “Peeta, can you hear me?”

He shows no sign of recognition, he remains frozen in whatever’s happening in his mind. Gently, I try to loosen his grip from his hair and instead intertwine my fingers between his. He’s holding on as if his life depended on it. Unsure if there’s anything I can say to help him, I focus on rubbing his hands with my thumbs. Eventually his grip loosens and he opens his eyes. Fear flits across his features momentarily, then embarrassment, then pure exhaustion.

“Katniss you should’ve gone,” he croaks miserably.

“I couldn’t leave you like that,” I say.

“I could have hurt you,” he insists.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” I say.

“But you shouldn’t–”

“No,” I nearly yell, “if it was reversed, would you have left?” 

He hesitates a moment, then shakes his head no.

“Then don’t you dare expect anything else from me,” I say fiercely. “Not anymore.”

He nods, training his eyes down to his lap. I realize I’m still holding both his hands and I release them as I take a good look at him. Normally steady, easygoing Peeta looks so small, so worn down.

“How often does this happen?” I ask, more gently now.

He sighs. “Few times a week, I guess. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Dr. Aurelius calls them flashbacks,” he says. “There’s no real pattern to it, but as long as I take care of myself after one I usually get a few days between them.” He hesitates. “They’re not…he doesn’t think that I’ll hurt you, either. But I still didn’t really trust myself to be around you during one…or immediately after.”

I think about those meals he missed the past few weeks, how there never seemed to be any pattern to it. It breaks my heart to think that all those times he was going through this alone.

“Well I trust you,” I say with a soft smile, “Completely. So no more hiding these, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, his voice still small.

“How can I help?” I ask.

“Katniss, don’t worry about it,” he says, “Trust me, I can take care of myself.”

For the first time, I picture Peeta coming home to this big, empty house, navigating a missing leg and a broken heart and the trauma of the Games all on his own. And again, a few weeks ago, returning to this house he never intended to come back to. His mind altered, his family gone, and me despondent, yet he didn’t give up. While I’ve been rotting away in my grief, Peeta hasn’t stopped trying. He hasn’t stopped fighting to return to who he was before. 

“I know you can,” I whisper, stroking back the hair from his forehead, “But you don’t have to anymore.”

For a moment he shuts his eyes tight again and I’m worried he’s having another flashback already, but then he swallows hard and opens his eyes again, now shining with unshed tears. 

“Thank you,” he whispers back.

“So, how can I help?” I repeat.

“Um, really I just need to rest for a while after. I usually get a pretty bad headache,” he says. “And I’m supposed to keep track of them for Aurelius…could you help with that? It’s the orange notebook on the kitchen counter.” 

I move to the kitchen and locate the little orange book quickly.

“You can just fill it in, if you don’t mind,” Peeta calls from the couch. “It’s a few pages in, write the date, time, and trigger–you can just write therapy there.”

I flip through the pages until I find the one he’s talking about. I can see him starting to lay down on the couch and I want to let him rest, but I have to admit I haven’t paid attention to the calendar in a long time.

“What’s the date today?” I ask.

“The nineteenth,” he answers.

“Of?”

He looks up at me in disbelief. “March, Katniss.”

I shrug and write it down in the book. Honestly, I would’ve figured we were well into April but I’m not about to admit that now.

“Somewhere in there is a timeline of what’s happened since the Quell. It helped me to put it all in order. If you think it would help you too, you’re welcome to flip through there and find it,” he says.

I hesitate, looking down at the notebook. “This seems…private,” I say slowly.

“No, it’s fine. It’s mostly just therapy work. There’s nothing in there that you can’t see,” he says kindly.

“Okay, thank you. Do you need anything else?” I ask.

“I’m just going to close my eyes for a few. Could you wake me up in an hour, please?” he says.

“Sure,” I say, bringing the little notebook with me as I settle into an armchair across from him.

I start to flip through Peeta’s book. Most of it is various lists, with occasional pages of doodles scattered throughout. I finally find the page titled TIMELINE in Peeta’s neat handwriting, and start reading through the dates and events. August 29 - Rescued from Capitol; December 4 - End of war; January 1 - Snow/Coin execution. Most of it is pretty expected, until I see the next point on the list:

January 14 - Fell (back) in love with Katniss.

I gasp quietly, unable to tear my eyes from the words like I’m scared they’ll disappear if I do. 

“What’s wrong?” says Peeta, starting to sit up.

“Nothing!” I say too quickly, “Nothing, it’s just a lot to take in. I’m sorry, go back to sleep.”

My eyes meet his, unconvinced and full of concern. You love me, I think. The corners of my mouth twitch.

“Go to sleep,” I repeat softly. He nods, and within several minutes he’s breathing deeply, fast asleep.

I tuck my knees up to my chest and allow myself to smile fully. What does this mean? Do I want him to love me? Yes, of course I do. A Peeta who loves me is a Peeta who no longer sees me as a threat, one who is really truly back to his old self. My Peeta. 

My own feelings are another thing entirely, though. At one point I would’ve been relieved to think that Peeta and I could have a chance to be friends with no feelings between us and no Capitol interfering. The last thing I would’ve wanted would be for Peeta to fall back in love with me. But I don’t feel that way anymore…is it because my feelings have changed, or just because I now know the reality of a Peeta who does not love me? 

Either way, I realize for the first time I have time to figure it out. There’s no false act for the Capitol, no threats. It’s not like Peeta’s pressuring me to have feel some certain way about him. These past weeks he’s done nothing but give me space and let me come back slowly, despite the fact that I hold the proof in my hands that he’s been in love with me this whole time. 

Now that the initial shock has worn off, I look back at the list of dates again. According to this, I was released from the Capitol towards the beginning of February, and Peeta came home at the end of that month. Why did he fall back in love with me in the middle of my trial? Was this what Haymitch meant when he said Peeta came back to himself? 

When the hour’s nearly up, I quickly sneak back to my house and rummage through the newly organized jars of medical supplies until I find what I’m looking for. Back at Peeta’s house, I heat up his kettle and dump the contents of the jar into a mug.

I kneel back down in front of him and gently stroke his hair again. “Peeta, it’s time to wake up.”

His eyes adjust into focus and a wide, sleepy grin spreads across his face. Oh, you really love me, I think.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi, how’s your head?” I ask

He shrugs. “Still hurts. It’ll pass.”

“Here, drink this.” He sits up and I hand him the mug. “This is what my mother makes for headaches,” I explain to his confused look.

“Oh! Well thank you, Dr. Everdeen.”

“Don’t thank me yet, it could taste like garbage,” I say, echoing his words from yesterday. He laughs and pats the spot next to him for me to sit. I take it gladly. 

We sit in silence while Peeta sips his tea. After seeing his flashback I understand better what he meant about not feeling entirely like himself, but I also think he’s not giving himself enough credit. He was brainwashed into seeing me as a threat, yet even when he slipped back into that nightmarish world tonight his only words to me were those of concern for my wellbeing. Because he loves me, I think with a small smile. 

My smile fades as a memory surfaces and I hear Prim’s voice in my head.

There’s a chance that the old Peeta, the one who loves you, is still inside. Trying to get back to you. Don’t give up on him.

I wish I could tell her she was right. Those words Prim said to give me hope at one of my lowest points were true. I think of the pages and pages of therapy work Peeta has done, how hard he’s been trying to get back to me. It’s my turn now, I decide, to try. To put in the work I need to for my own recovery. For Prim, for Peeta, maybe even for myself.

Chapter Text

My resolve to try harder to take care of myself lasts exactly two days. As soon as I open my eyes on Saturday, I know something’s wrong. I feel that familiar, heavy blanket of sadness draping over every inch of my body. Maybe someday Dr. Aurelius can teach me how to make the heaviness go away, but until then I am resigned to let this be another lost day.

I can hear Peeta moving around the kitchen and my heart aches momentarily. Usually on days like this I’ve had no desire to do anything, but right now I want to be in the kitchen eating with Peeta. It’s incredibly frustrating, because no matter how much I try to force myself to stand up, I can't do it. So instead, I burrow myself further into my blankets and listen miserably to the noises downstairs.

Between my hunter’s ears and his loud tread I can hear every step he takes. I hear him bustling around the kitchen, preparing the meal I won’t be joining him for. He opens and shuts the cabinets to get dishes. Eventually he pauses, walks towards the stairs, pauses again. No doubt he’s debating whether he should come check on me or leave me alone. I’m glad he chooses the former, as I hear his feet hit each step.

He hovers awkwardly in my doorway and takes in the sight of me huddled so far under the blankets that only part of my head peeks out.

“Hey,” he says gently, “are you coming down for breakfast?”

I shake my head no. He frowns slightly.

“I made french toast,” he offers, hoping this will tempt me to the kitchen. I don’t even know what french toast is, but I don’t have the energy to tell him that. I just shake my head again. He studies me, frowning, for a long time. Finally he gives me a little nod and turns around to go back downstairs without another word.

The ache in my chest grows. It was hard enough dealing with this feeling when I was just numb, but now, after a string of decent days, the pain is excruciating. Just as I feel like I might actually start crying, I hear him coming back up the stairs again. He comes back in holding two plates and sits down on the edge of my bed.

“I hate eating alone,” he admits as he hands me my plate and starts pulling utensils out of his pocket. 

I just stare at him, confused about this turn of events.

“Have you had french toast before?” he asks. I shake my head, again. “I understand if you’re not hungry, but I think you’ll really like it.” 

He’s right, even through the haze of my sadness I can tell this is a meal I’ll request again, on a day I’m feeling better than today. We eat in silence, with Peeta glancing up at me every so often to try and read my expression. When we’re both done, he stacks our plates together and moves off of the bed.

“Well, thanks for eating with me. I’ll leave you alone now,” he says kindly.

Don’t go, I think. It must come across my face, because then Peeta adds, tentatively, “Unless you…want company?”

I nod quickly. “Only if you want to,” I say quietly, speaking for the first time today. I know I shouldn’t ask this of him. I won’t be much fun today.

“Yeah, of course. I’m just going to go grab my sketchbook then I’ll be right back, okay?”

It doesn’t take very long for him to return with a sketchbook, his colored pencils, and two glasses of water, one of which he sets down on my bedside table before taking his place on the edge of the bed again. 

“Peeta, I’m going to be here all day,” I tell him.

“That’s okay,” he says with a soft smile.

“You’re not going to sit like that all day,” I say, a little irritated with his politeness.

“I’m fine,” he shrugs.

I raise an eyebrow and jerk my head to the empty spot next to me on the bed. He looks at me as if to ask Are you sure? at which I give the spot a little pat.

It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been in my bed like this. The way we’re positioned now, side by side with our backs against the headboard, reminds me a little too much of the days we spent working on the plant book while my ankle healed. Those were happy days though, relatively speaking, and I don’t want to associate that time with the way I’m feeling now. I burrow myself back down into the blankets, turned on my side so I’m facing Peeta.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asks gently.

I shrug and start to shake my head, then surprise myself by saying, “Wait, yes. Tell me a story.”

“The happiest day I can remember?” He raises his eyebrows.

“No, nothing I was there for,” I say, managing a little smirk. He chuckles. “Just…tell me everything you’ve done since coming home or every type of bread you used to sell at the bakery or anything really. Just keep talking. Keep me from getting too in my head right now.”

And so Peeta spends the morning talking. He fills me in on Effie and Annie and Johanna, all of whom he’s evidently done a better job of keeping in touch with than I have. Effie was quite the unexpected friend to him while he was in treatment, and the two of them had dinner together several times a week after Haymitch and I returned to Twelve. Johanna’s in Two, but apparently she hasn’t stayed in any place for very long since the war ended. He only tells me that Annie is back in Four, I’m sure he’s avoiding telling me how she’s really doing since he’s meant to be distracting me from the bad thoughts. 

He tells me about books he’s read and people he’s seen back around Twelve and any little mundane thing he can think of to pass the time. It turns out he really does remember every kind of bread they sold at the bakery by heart–or maybe it’s one of the lists he’s made in his little orange book–and he starts describing each type of bread for me. I try my hardest to maintain interest, since he’s doing this for me, but somewhere around pumpernickel I doze off.

When I wake up, Peeta’s gone quiet and is deeply concentrated on his sketchbook. I take the opportunity to watch him sketch the way I used to. The way his eyebrows knit together in that intense concentration he takes on when he sketches. The way his hand moves across the page so quickly but still with incredible precision. And, of course, the way the sun dances through his long eyelashes.

“Are you hungry?” he says abruptly, startling me. He hasn’t taken his eyes off his drawing at all since I woke up, I didn’t know he knew I was awake.

“I just ate,” I grumble. He frowns slightly at me.

“That was several hours ago, you’ve been asleep for a while,” he says.

“Oh. Well I’m not hungry,” I say, harsher than I mean to. 

“Okay,” he says, unfazed by my tone, but standing up and adjusting his artificial leg. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to get some lunch.” Then he adds, “Try to at least drink some water, please.” 

I pull myself into a sitting position and press the glass to my lips to appease him. He gives me a small smile as he leaves the room.

He returns with a turkey sandwich and three cheese buns, two of which he leaves on my side table. He sits on the edge of the bed again, earning an exasperated look from me.

“Relax, I just don’t want to get crumbs all over your bed,” he says with a soft laugh.

We sit in silence again, until I can’t stand it.

“I hate feeling like this,” I blurt out.

“What is it that you’re feeling, exactly?” he asks.

“I don’t know, I just feel kind of…heavy. It’s like all of my sadness is laying on top of me and I can’t move or take care of myself even though I know I should. ”

He frowns slightly. “And this happens a lot?”

“Yeah, I mean, this past week’s been better but it never really goes away,” I say. “I’m just getting better at ignoring it some days.”

“Have you talked to Dr. Aurelius about it?” he presses.

“No, I haven’t really talked to him about much of anything,” I admit, “But that’s changing Monday, apparently.”

“Good. I know it’s weird talking to a stranger about your problems but it really does help. And he’s good at his job,” he says.

I nod. If anything, I trust Peeta’s opinion on this more than I would trust anyone else.

“It sounds like a lot of work,” I grumble.

“It is, but it’s worth it I think,” he says thoughtfully as he readjusts himself next to me on the bed.

He reaches over and pushes back some of my hair that’s escaped my braid. “It’ll get better, you’ll see.” I lean into his touch as I drift back to sleep. 

I wake up in the cave, burrowed as deep into the sleeping bag as I can to preserve my warmth. Suddenly I remember that Peeta should be in the sleeping bag with me, should be keeping us more than warm enough with his fever. When I roll over he’s there, but his body is completely cold. “Peeta!” I shout. Suddenly we’re not in the cave but in the jungle, and Finnick springs into action to revive Peeta. Only now we’re underground, and Finnick is still trying to start Peeta’s heart, and the lizard mutts are coming at us from all sides.

“Katniss…”

I can hear Peeta’s voice but I can’t see him anymore. I let him out of my sight again and now it’s just mutts all around and Finnick with his trident and I know what comes next and I’m screaming and where is Peeta?

“Katniss, wake up…”

I wake with a start, still screaming. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe now.” Peeta’s holding me to his chest, continuing his litany of comforting words. The tears that have been threatening to come all day begin flowing now, and I sob uncontrollably into Peeta’s shirt. 

He lets me cry for a few minutes before he says, “Can you hear my heartbeat?” I nod into his chest. “Good, just focus on that. Only on that. See how many you can count,” he says gently.

It helps. I count out fifty of Peeta’s heartbeats and find that my sobs have stopped.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Of course. Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. I shake my head no. “That’s okay.” He’s rubbing small circles into my upper back. It feels so good to have him holding me like this again. I’ve missed having his arms to comfort me after a nightmare.

“Can I stay like this for a while?” I ask, surprising myself. 

He gives a soft chuckle. “Of course you can. As long as you’re comfortable, I can stay like this all day.”

With those words I hear his heart speed up. And I remember that he loves me and it’s not fair to him for me to want his comfort like this. Before I know it I’m up on my feet. Peeta looks perplexed at the sudden turn of events, so I just mutter “bathroom,” and shut the door behind me. I stand in front of the mirror, gripping the sink.

He shouldn’t love me , I think as I take in my reflection. I’ve looked worse, certainly, but it’s still not a pretty sight. My hair is a tangled mess, my face is puffy and red from crying. He shouldn’t love me. He shouldn’t have fallen back in love with me and come back to this ghost town where all I can do is hurt him again.

It’s different now. In the cave I thought he was pretending to be in love. On the train we were bound together by obligation and Snow’s threats. But now, there’s no need to pretend and no obligations. While I care about Peeta so much–probably even love him, in some way like Finnick had said–I can’t lead him on now, and I couldn’t bear to break his heart again. I can’t even bring myself to brush my teeth, how can I ever be expected to be in love?

Well, okay, as long as I’m here I can brush my teeth. Then I rebraid my hair, and run a wet cloth over my face. I change into a pair of soft pants and a loose t-shirt from the bathroom floor that aren’t necessarily clean but are better than the sweat soaked pajamas I was wearing. I reevaluate the mirror, feeling just a little more human than I have all day.

When I exit the bathroom his blue eyes are on me immediately, narrowed with concern and curiosity at my change in appearance. I consider him again, consider the position we found ourselves in moments ago. Peeta’s love has never come with expectations. And honestly, regardless of my feelings for him, I can’t deny that he has always brought me comfort in a way no one else can. And why should I? I want to be held by him and he wants to hold me. Maybe, just for right now, that can be enough.

I take a cheese bun from the plate he left as I settle back in under the covers and against him. I compromise with myself by settling my head on his shoulder rather than his chest. He’s back to sketching now, but he glances at me out of the corner of his eye with a warm smile as I nestle into him.

I watch his hands as he works and I eat my cheese bun. He’s drawing a room that feels vaguely familiar to me but it takes me a while to place it. Eventually, the front room of the bakery takes shape, but there’s something off about it.

“Is that…” I choose my words carefully, “Is that how you remember the bakery?”

“No, not exactly,” he clarifies. “Now that painting’s become such a significant part of my therapy, it kind of zapped the fun out of it. So I try to sketch for fun when I can. Less memory, more daydreams.”

He flips back a page to reveal several sketches of intricate looking cakes.

“You daydream in cake?” I ask with a hint of a giggle.

“Among other things,” he smirks.

I point to a cream colored cake covered in wildflowers. “If you made me this cake right now, what would it taste like?” I ask lightly.

“Hmm,” he ponders for a minute. “If it’s for you, I think it should be marshmallow frosting and a chocolate cake. With a dark chocolate ganache filling,” he says thoughtfully.

I sigh wistfully. “I don’t even know what ganache is, but it sounds delicious.” 

He laughs, “I’m a little lacking in the cake ingredient area at the moment, but once I build my stock up again I’ll make it for you.” 

He flips back another page, this one is packed with various loaves of bread.

“I made you this visual to accompany my list of breads, but I bored you to sleep before I got a chance to show you,” he says playfully.

I fake a long, exaggerated yawn. “Sorry, what’d you say? I’m just so tired all of a sudden.”

Peeta chuckles. “Maybe I should leave this one here for you so you have it on the nights you can’t fall asleep,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t have any trouble falling asleep. It’s just staying asleep without screaming my head off that’s the problem.”

The laughter drains from his eyes into a look of pity, but I don’t want that so I reach for the sketchbook to flip back another page. 

“That’s all I did today, I don’t know what else is in this book before that,” he says.

“Should we find out?” I ask, my hand still poised to turn the page. He nods.

It turns out this was the sketchbook he used when we were working on the plant book. The next several pages are littered with sketches of plants he did before receiving my approval to put them in the book. I flip through them pretty quickly, but stop suddenly on a drawing in the midst of all the plant sketches that is so unlike all the others.

It’s a silhouette of me, sleeping–at least I assume it’s me because of the long braid hanging down from the figure’s head–but instead of a bed I’m laying on top of a field of lavender.

“I must’ve snuck this one in here one day when you fell asleep,” he admits. I give Peeta a curious look. He takes a deep inhale then frowns slightly. 

“It always…well it used to always smell like lavender in here,” he says.

I’m confused for a second, then the realization hits me with a pinch in my heart. I reach my hand down between the headboard and the mattress until I find what I’m looking for.

I hold up the small sachet of lavender for Peeta to sniff. He chuckles, “Well, that’ll do it.” 

I smile sadly at the little pouch. “When I came home from the Games and the nightmares were awful, Prim had read about lavender helping people sleep. She hid a bunch of these in my bed to try to help me, I guess the smell’s wearing off now that no one’s refreshing them.”

I never would’ve remembered it if it weren’t for Peeta’s sketch. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not exactly an important memory but it is so indicative of everything that Prim was. So loving, so thoughtful, a little naive but in the most endearing way.

“I’m forgetting her,” I whisper so quietly I’m not sure if Peeta can even hear me.

“Katniss, you loved her more than anything. You can never forget her,” he says.

You forgot me , I think, but I know that’s not entirely fair.

“I’ll never forget her , but I’m forgetting details. Things like this,” I say looking at the sachet, “All the little things I took for granted when she was alive. I want to remember all of them.”

“You could write them down as they come to you,” Peeta suggests. “It’s what I do, you saw my book. If I’ve learned anything over the past seven months…” he hesitates, “Human memory is alarmingly unreliable. It doesn’t hurt to have a…backup system. So you know you won’t forget those things.”

I think about all his lists and his living room full of paintings. Poor Peeta, trying to reconstruct his brain outside of his body in case his mind ever betrays him again.

“That’s a good idea, thanks,” I say.

Peeta glances at the clock. “Sae will probably be here soon. I should probably…” he trails off. I know what he’s thinking, that Sae will have a thing or two to say if she catches Peeta coming down from my room.

“Probably best not to let May Belle know you spent the day in my room?” I supply for him. 

“Yeah, exactly,” he rolls his eyes and laughs a little. “Do you want me to bring dinner up to you?” 

I consider his offer. I realize that Peeta’s managed to do what I thought was impossible on these days; I still feel that heavy sadness, but it’s a little lighter now. 

I shake my head. “No, I’ll come down. I’m going to take a shower first, though.”

“Okay,” he says with a soft smile, “I’ll meet you down there in a few.”

As I let the warm water wash over me, I feel my body start to come back to life a little more. I make a mental note to try showering sooner on days like these, or at least to tell Peeta that it helped so he can remind me.

Peeta. Kind, generous, loving Peeta, who stayed with me all day just because of a look. My mind wanders back to my concerns from earlier, the questions about love and why and how and could I eve r? I decide that, for now, I cannot love him. At least not in the way that he wants me to. But I can be his friend. After all, Peeta has never expected me to love him back. After the Games, when he knew it had been pretend, he was able to set aside his feelings and offer me friendship. And if that’s all I can offer him now, I can at least make sure that I’m a good friend to him and that I don’t lead him on.

I towel off and find clothes that are actually clean and not bathroom-floor-clean. As I rummage through the drawer my fingers slip past a soft green shirt that was made by Cinna. I can hear noise in the kitchen so I try to hurry, but as I make my way to the stairs I stop briefly in Prim’s doorway and give a soft smile at the thought of her. At the bottom of the stairs, I catch a glimpse of my father’s hunting jacket, a little worse for the wear than it was six years ago but still holding up remarkably well.

I like Peeta’s idea about making a list of memories, but I realize it can’t be just for Prim. I want to write down everything I can think of about everyone we’ve lost. Not just because it will help me not to forget but because it would give me another piece of them to hold. Someday I will have to clean Prim’s room, and Cinna’s clothes may no longer fit me, and my father’s jacket could fall apart. And what about the people who I have nothing to hold on to to begin with, like Rue and Finnick? What better way to keep them close than to turn the memories of them into something precious and tangible?

When I get to the kitchen, the sight before me temporarily blocks my thoughts about the book I want to make. May Belle has climbed onto Peeta’s lap and they’re both looking at his sketchbook. She’s clutching her little doll with one hand, while the other points at the different loaves of bread for Peeta to name. I simply raise my eyebrows at him when he catches sight of me, and he can barely contain the laugh behind the glare he’s trying to give me.

“At least someone appreciates my bread lessons,” he says as he sets the little girl back on the ground. 

“I think I’d learn much better if I actually got to eat the bread,” I tease.

“That can be arranged,” he says with a chuckle. 

We thank Sae for the meal as she and May Belle pack up to go.

“We’ll see you Monday night, dears,” Sae says as she leaves.

“Monday?” I ask, turning to Peeta. I’ve been trying to do better at keeping track of the days, but I was sure today was Saturday.

“Oh, sorry, I guess I forgot to tell you. We’re having dinner with Haymitch tomorrow,” he explains. “I figured between the three of us we can scrounge something together without Sae’s help.”

“And why are we having dinner with Haymitch?” I ask. It’s not that it’s a bad plan, in fact I realize that the three of us haven’t been in the same room since before the Quell. If you don’t count Coin’s gathering of the Victors, which I have decided I do not.

“Well I used to…” he sighs, “I used to have dinner with my family on Sundays, after I moved out. Since you and Haymitch are the closest thing to family I have left, I wanted to restart the tradition with you two,” he explains sheepishly.

I cover his hand with mine before I can think better of it. “That sounds great,” I say kindly. I squeeze his hand before I pull away. Friends can comfort each other when they’re sad about their dead families. That feels perfectly acceptable. And on that note…

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about writing down memories, I want to do that. But I…I had an idea.” He looks up at me, prompting me to continue. “I want to make a book. Like my family plant book but…for all the people we lost.” His expression is unreadable, so I continue to explain. “We could–or I could I mean–write down everything that we never want to forget about them. And it would be nice to include a picture of each of them, we could probably find something for most of them, but if we can’t maybe you could draw one? But you don’t have to, I mean if you don’t want to…” I’m rambling now, and I still can’t read his face. “What do you think?” I add nervously.

“I think…” his expression softens, “I think that’s a great idea, Katniss.”

“Really?”

“Really. I think that would be something really special. I’d love to help, however I can,” he says. 

“Thank you,” I say, relieved. There’s no way I’ll be able to do this without Peeta. “I guess I’ll just need to get the supplies…” I realize I still have no idea how to order anything to be shipped on the train.

“You should tell Dr. Aurelius about the idea on Monday. They’ve got that whole art room at the trauma center, I bet he can get everything we’ll need,” Peeta says. 

As we finish dinner, I find myself looking at our empty plates with disappointment. It’s funny, you’d think that after spending the entire day with Peeta I’d be ready to be alone, but I find that I never really get sick of him. Maybe he’s feeling the same way, because suddenly he insists on doing the dishes.

I could ask him to stay. It’s not like it would be anything new for us, and he already spent the whole day in my bed. But no, I know I can’t. Friends can spend the day together when one of them is having a hard time. Friends can’t ask each other to sleep in their bed and hold them. 

Peeta takes an unreasonably long time washing the few dishes from the day, and since he won’t let me help, I just sit on the counter next to the sink and continue talking with him. He keeps asking how I’m doing, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m doing alright. Between Peeta’s friendship and my new mission to start the memory book, I feel a kind of anticipation that I haven’t in a long time. When Peeta can no longer drag the dishes out any longer, we give each other a resigned nod and I walk him to the door.

“Peeta, thank you for everything today,” I say sincerely.

“I didn’t do anything other than sit on your bed and eat your food,” he jokes.

“You did a lot more than that,” I admonish him, but because it’s too real I add, “You also washed the dishes.” Peeta chuckles softly. “Seriously, thank you. You really helped me today,” I say.

“That’s what you and I do, right?” he says quietly.

For just one moment there’s such an intensity in his gaze that I think he’s about to kiss me, and I think I’m about to let him. But as I tilt my chin up towards his face, he simply brushes a strand of hair behind my ear and says, “Sleep well, Katniss.”

As I climb back into bed soon after, I find myself rolling closer to Peeta’s side of the bed. I take a deep inhale and breathe in his faint scent on the pillow as I fall asleep, too tired to remember that that’s not what friends do.

Chapter Text

March 31st

On the last day of March, I find myself heading back from the woods with a very good haul and an even better mood. Over the past week my stamina has been increasing and I’ve been able to spend more and more time hunting. Today my time was rewarded with two rabbits, a turkey, and a few squirrels for Peeta. I could’ve gotten more, but these days I’m careful not to shoot anything more than necessary. Still, Sae will take anything that’s in excess of what Peeta and I need, and the least I can do is bring her fresh game after she’s been feeding me these past months.

After finding a patch of early strawberries, I made a mental note to add Madge to our growing list of people to add to our book. The supplies to begin the book will be arriving on today’s train, and I’m itching to get started on it. Since pitching the idea to Peeta and Dr. Aurelius, I’ve been overwhelmed with the number of memories that will flood my brain at the slightest of things. So far Peeta and I have just started a list of people we want to include, and occasionally we’ll add a word to help us remember a particular memory, but I’m anxious to get the memories out of my head and onto paper as soon as we can.

When I enter the Village, I find Peeta walking towards me. I frown, as this is a departure from the pattern we’ve fallen into over the past week. Every morning, Peeta comes over and makes breakfast at my house, and we eat together before I head to the woods. After I’m done hunting, I meet Peeta at his house where he’s usually baking or painting or sketching. Sometimes I watch him paint. One time he gave me a palette and let me play around with mixing different colors because I needed something to do. More often than not, though, I just fall asleep on his couch and wake up with a blanket draped over me. 

We separate for our respective therapies, but on days without I stay at Peeta’s house until dinner. Peeta does the dishes every night, despite my protests that it’s my house and I’m the only one not cooking. He claims that I do enough by catching our food. I notice that he leaves all of the breakfast dishes until after dinner so he can stay longer in the evening, but I wouldn’t dare point that out to him.

“Where are you going?” I call out to him.

“Train station, you want to come?” he calls back as he closes the distance between us.

I weigh my options. Truthfully, I’m already exhausted, but by the time Peeta comes back it’ll be nearly time for my therapy call, after which I will certainly fall asleep today. All things considered, I’d much rather walk with Peeta now than spend most of the day without him.

“Sure, let me just drop this off,” I say, holding up my game bag.

We walk and talk about nothing in particular; How was the woods and what did you bake and did you see there were lights on in the ninth house last night ? At one point our hands brush together, and I choose to ignore the way it makes my heart pound out an irregular pattern. I guess I could hold his hand, that was something we did as friends, right? Still, maybe I ought to play it safe. To avoid confusing him.

When we get to the station, Peeta and I part ways momentarily to find our shipments. The box of art supplies is heavy but small enough for me to carry without a cart. Still, when I find Peeta again he immediately lifts the package out of my arms and drops it on top of one of his crates. 

“So, what did you order this week?” I ask.

“More of the usual. Flour, paint, canvas,” he shrugs.

“I should get more hobbies,” I complain, “really all I have is hunting.” And watching Peeta paint, if that counts. Which it probably doesn’t.

“Well, what else do you like to do?” Peeta asks. It’s an innocent question, but given what I was just thinking I can’t help but blush a bit.

“Uh…I don’t know. Gather food?” I suggest. Peeta chuckles. “Sleep on your couch? Annoy Haymitch with my existence?”

“That’s not true,” Peeta says. I shoot him a skeptical look. “It’s not your existence that annoys him. It’s just when you talk.” 

– – – 

I like Mondays because I don’t have to keep myself occupied after therapy waiting for Peeta’s call to end. As soon as I finish my call with Dr. Aurelius, I let myself into Peeta’s house and throw myself across his couch. Between my extended time in the woods, the walk to and from the train station, and rehashing various traumas to Dr. Aurelius, I’m both physically and emotionally drained. I fall asleep before Peeta can even say hello.

I wake up tucked into my favorite of Peeta’s blankets, and notice a plate of cheese buns on the table in front of me. Peeta’s at his easel nearby, eyes concentrated on his painting.

“Well, hi there. Nice of you to join me,” he says without looking away from his work.

I smile at him apologetically as I sit up and grab the cheese buns, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said earlier,” he says.

“Did I say something worth thinking about?” I ask, mouth full of bread.

“You say lots of things worth thinking about,” he says quietly. “I was just thinking about how you said you needed more hobbies and I think I do too.”

“Peeta,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the paintings surrounding us. “You have hobbies.”

“I have coping mechanisms,” he argues. “I paint to get things out of my head. I bake because it’s ingrained in me. I don’t have much that I do just for fun.”

Fun. I can’t remember the last time I did anything just for fun. After two arenas and a war it feels like a foreign concept, but also well deserved.

“So what kind of things do you want to do for fun?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I just think…” he trails off for a moment. “I think we should laugh more.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. At dinner time, Peeta packs up his paints and we head to my place together. We encounter Haymitch, sitting on his porch with a bottle in one hand and a bored expression. And, I realize as we get closer, a dark, cartoonish mustache drawn on his face.

“You got your shipment alright?” asks Peeta conversationally.

In response, Haymitch raises his bottle in the air, takes a big swig, then sloppily wipes his face with the back of his hand. The mustache remains in place, and Haymitch remains presumably oblivious.

Peeta makes a few more attempts at small talk with Haymitch while I try to contain the bubble of laughter building up inside of me. The more I try to suppress it, the more the feeling builds. I’m lucky I had so many years of practice arranging my face into an emotionless mask, otherwise I would have already blown Peeta’s trick. Peeta, who’s a much better actor than I am, is maintaining an even expression as well. But I can see the tiniest of cracks in his facade, and somehow I know that if the two of us were to make eye contact right now it would be over for both of us. 

We bid our goodbyes to Haymitch and walk quickly towards my house. The second I shut the door behind us, Peeta and I burst out laughing. We laugh continuously for several minutes. Every time one of us starts to collect ourselves, the other sets them off and the process repeats itself. By the time we both get it together, Peeta has tears streaming down his face from laughter and I’m clutching onto his elbows for stability.

“Oh man,” says Peeta, catching his breath, “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed like that,” I admit, breathlessly. 

Peeta gives me a tender smile, but it’s soon replaced by a wide grin as another wave of uncontrollable giggles overtakes me. 

“So is this your new hobby?” I ask. “Playing juvenile pranks on Haymitch?”

“Don’t act so superior. You were the one who almost laughed in his face,” Peeta points out. 

“I’m not acting superior, I’m just surprised. I didn’t think you were the type to play pranks, that’s all,” I say.

“I’m not really, but the idea came to me and it reminded me of something my brothers would do,” he says with a sad smile, “And it’s harmless, and so I decided that every so often I’m allowed to act my age.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “So should I be watching my back now that I know you’re on the pranking warpath?”

“Nah, you’re already in on it,” he shrugs. “And besides, I might need an ally.”

“Well, we’ve always made a pretty good team,” I say, lightly nudging him in the ribs.

When we finally leave the entryway, both our sights fall onto the crate of book supplies on my living room table. I had opened it to examine the contents briefly before therapy, but I didn’t have time to do much more than take a quick look. The laughter drains from my face as I think about the task we’re about to take on. 

“Are you ready to get started?” Peeta asks. I nod as we sit together and start sifting through supplies.

April 6

The sun has barely begun to rise, but my day has already started. This nightmare was particularly unbearable; one where I watched Peeta through the glass like I had in the hospital in Thirteen, only on the other side I realized I was witnessing his torture firsthand. Before I’m even fully awake, I’ve bolted down the stairs and out the door. There’s lights on at his house, as I subconsciously knew there would be, so I burst into his house. 

“Hey,” he says, clearly surprised by my early appearance, but not displeased.

I assess him as my brain starts to catch up with my body. Clear eyes, broad shoulders, no cuts or bruises. This is not the thin, tortured boy of my nightmare. This is just my Peeta. I collapse into his open arms, once again steady and strong.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

“Not even a little,” I say into his chest. He rests his chin on the top of my head while he strokes my hair for a while.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make hot chocolate?” he suggests. 

“You have hot chocolate?!” I exclaim, pulling back from him.

“Yeah, it’ll just take a few minutes,” he says with a chuckle at my sudden mood shift.

I take a seat at his table, tucking my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around myself. After Peeta has started heating up a pot of milk on the stove, he furrows his brow at me.

“Are you…cold?” he asks tactfully. I pay attention to what I’m wearing for the first time and realize it’s not much, just a thin t-shirt and a small pair of shorts. Between the assortment of plush blankets on my bed and the sweat-inducing nightmares, it hasn’t made much sense to sleep in anything more than this. I suddenly feel very self-conscious sitting in his kitchen with barely any clothes on. 

“A little,” I admit, crossing my arms more firmly over my chest now that I’m a little too aware of how thin this shirt is.

“If you want to grab a sweater or something you’re welcome to. My room’s down the hall, you can take whatever from the dresser,” he offers.

“You don’t sleep upstairs?” I ask, frowning.

Peeta shrugs. “It was too much for my leg when I first moved in, and it never really made sense to relocate up there once I adjusted to the prosthetic. One of the rooms turned into storage but other than that I mostly just pretend the upstairs doesn’t exist.”

I nod my thanks to Peeta and head down the hall. It makes sense, I guess. My house never felt as empty as I’m sure Peeta’s did, but that was because all the bedrooms were occupied. It strikes me how pointless it is for both of us to have so many empty bedrooms when the other homes in the village are housing at least ten people apiece.

Peeta’s room is pretty much identical to my spare bedroom, with the standard issue Capitol furniture all in the same place. The only major difference is the painting that’s propped up on top of his dresser. It’s a truly magnificent rendering of a sunset over the forest. It might be my favorite of his. Unlike most of Peeta’s paintings, this one doesn’t seem to be a particular memory. It’s just beautiful. I smile at it before I start carefully sifting through his drawers. I find a dark green knit sweater and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Both are ridiculously large on me, but after I roll up the sleeves and tighten the drawstring on the pants it’s manageable. 

When I return to the kitchen I find two sets of eyes on me. There’s something soft in Peeta’s expression as he takes in the sight of me in his pajamas, the corners of his mouth just slightly twitching. Haymitch, however, is staring at me with his eyebrows raised as far as they’ll go. I realize the implications of me coming from Peeta’s room, this early in the morning, wearing his clothes. I feel my cheeks grow warm, which does nothing to help the situation.

“Nice of you to join us, Sweetheart,” Haymitch scoffs. 

“Wish I could say the same to you,” I grumble. 

Peeta sets down a mug in front of each of us, then goes back for his own before joining us at the table. The second the smell hits my nose I feel a wave of nausea roll though me. I glance at both Haymitch and Peeta’s mugs and confirm that they’re both full of coffee. 

“Sorry I didn’t offer, do you want coffee instead?” Peeta asks, misreading my disdain as disappointment.

“No, thank you,” I scowl, adding, “The last time I had coffee I had a complete breakdown, probably best to avoid it.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes. “I’m not sure that was exactly the coffee’s fault.”

“Well it certainly didn’t help,” I snap back at him. I immediately regret mentioning it because I don’t want to talk about this now and the last thing I want is for…

“When was this?” asks Peeta in a measured tone. I’ve noticed it’s the same tone he’s adopted whenever a memory comes up between me and Haymitch that he wasn’t around for. He tries not to be upset, I know, but these things just remind him that he was left behind and being tortured while Haymitch and I were safe in Thirteen. I can’t blame him for feeling bothered by it.

“It was…the day you were…rescued,” I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, “I was supposed to film a propo but I…couldn’t.”

Peeta nods. “Oh, right. They showed me that footage,” he says quietly. If Peeta has any more thoughts on the subject he doesn’t offer them. He just takes a long pull from his mug and stares pensively out the window. Haymitch looks between the pair of us.

“Well since the three of us are here now, does that fulfill my obligation for dinner tonight?” asks Haymitch.

“I didn’t realize it was such an imposition for you to come and have someone else cook you a hot meal in a clean house,” says Peeta, returning to more of his normal self. 

My shoulders release the tension I didn’t realize they were holding. It’s a delicate balance sometimes. Peeta says that talking about the past helps him to process and accept it, but at the same time I’ve found that those topics are also most likely to trigger a flashback in him. He’s had several in front of me now, but it doesn’t get any easier to see him like that.

“Well, then, I’d better head out. Don’t wanna waste all my charm on the two of you now. Gotta save something for later,” says Haymitch. 

With Haymitch gone, Peeta returns to gazing out the window, clearly lost in thought. I just sip my hot chocolate quietly. We’ve grown accustomed to long stretches of silence between the two of us, when I come in the afternoons while he paints or when he stays after dinner so we can work on the memory book. Those silences are familiar, comfortable even. The silence now is nothing like that.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m breakable, you know,” says Peeta after a while, “I know you don’t want to trigger a flashback, but I can’t control when they come. Even if I’m careful, there’s always going to be triggers I don’t know about or can’t avoid. It’s like your nightmares, I don’t think they’ll ever really stop. So I might as well just keep living my life, I don’t want to spend my life tiptoeing around the hard topics.”

I nod, and hope that my eyes convey the apology I know he would dismiss if I said it. 

“That’s good,” I say, with a soft smile, “You’re awful at tiptoeing.”

– – –

Later that day, I’m sitting on the counter next to Peeta while he prepares dinner. I keep asking if I can help with anything, but he won’t let me. This is the third week he’s made Sunday dinner for the three of us, but Peeta hasn’t let either of us help. Not that Haymitch ever offers. Probably for the best, my cooking is adequate at best and I’m not sure Haymitch could cook an edible meal if he tried. And Peeta, it turns out, is as good at cooking as he is at baking. Effie sent him a cookbook, 101 Easy Family Dinners , and he’s been working his way through it for us on Sundays. Each meal is better than the last, and while I appreciate everything Sae’s done to help us the past months, I find myself secretly hoping that Peeta will start making more of our meals.

When we hear Haymitch enter the house, Peeta quickly drops his voice. “Still my ally, right?”

“Always,” I answer automatically. The corners of Peeta’s mouth twitch.

“Keep him occupied for a bit,” he whispers.

As soon as Haymitch enters the kitchen Peeta realizes he forgot some ingredient at his house. He leaves with a wink over his shoulder, and I’m left trying to figure out why the offhand gesture flooded my body with warmth.

“So how’s your day going, Haymitch?” I ask, hopping down from the counter.

He glares at me suspiciously. “Fine.”

“That’s good,” I say. 

“Seemed like you were having a good morning until I showed up,” he says.

“I got there three minutes before you did,” I say testily.

“Uh-huh, and you just happened to go straight to his room and put on his clothes?” he asks with a smirk. 

I glare at him, knowing he’ll never believe that’s actually what happened. Peeta had started chopping some carrots before he left, so I pick up where he left off to avoid Haymitch’s eye.

“I was on that train, too,” he continues. “I figured it was a matter of time before the two of you started shacking up again. I don’t care, the two of you are old enough to make your own decisions. Just don’t expect me to babysit if–”

“Haymitch!” I cut him off. My cheeks must be a deep red. “Nothing happened. This morning or on the train,” I clarify quietly.

“If you say so,” Haymitch says.

I continue chopping vegetables and ignoring Haymitch for the next several minutes. It’s a while before I realize I’ve been humming to myself, something that’s been happening more often recently. I look up to see Haymitch with a soft smile across his face, which is disconcerting. He quickly wipes it back into a scowl, but he knows I caught him.

“I just like that song, that’s all,” he says gruffly.

“You know it?” I ask. I hadn’t been paying enough attention to myself to know what I was singing, but it must’ve been something I learned from my father. That’s the only kind of song I know, really.

“My life used to have more music in it,” he says quietly.

Just another thing we have in common, I suppose. For the first time I stop to consider the people he lost. He mentioned his family and a girl when Peeta was being rescued. I’ve become selfish of my time with Peeta working on the book, but surely Haymitch has memories he wants to preserve as well.

“You can join us when we’re working on the book, you know,” I say after a moment.

“What book?” he says. I know for a fact we’ve both mentioned it before, so he’s just feigning ignorance now.

“The memory book. The thing Peeta and I have been working on? The reason he’s here all the time?” I remind him.

Haymitch snorts. “That’s not the reason, and you know it.”

With that, Peeta comes back in the front door and I shoot Haymitch a look. Peeta apologizes for the delay, claiming that Delly called and had a lot to say. When he sees me working on dinner he frowns but doesn’t try to stop me, just resumes cooking as well. At one point he passes behind me to get to the stove with a light touch to my lower back, and my entire body breaks out in goosebumps. I must stare at Peeta for a beat too long, because when I catch sight of Haymitch in the corner of my eye he looks far too smug for my liking. I push the chopped vegetables towards Peeta and pull myself back up on the counter.

“Well, like I was saying, if you want to add anyone you’re welcome to join us,” I add to Haymitch.

“Why would I want to do that?” he says.

“To remember them?” I suggest.

“Again, why would I want to do that?” he repeats. 

Haymitch takes a long swig from his bottle and my argument is cut off by the sound of the phone ringing. I make no move to pick it up, though. I know who’s calling. Dr. Aurelius calls on Mondays and Wednesdays, my mother calls on Saturday evenings. I’ve learned the hard way that there is only one person who calls me on random days and times, and I have no desire to speak to him, now or ever.

When the ringing stops, Haymitch looks at me, bewildered.

“Did you forget how to answer the phone again, Sweetheart?”

“It’ll ring again,” I say bitterly. We’ve done this too many times in the past couple of weeks, although it’s hardly been worth noting. I was just hoping at some point he’d take the hint and give up.

As if on cue, the phone starts ringing again. This time it’s Peeta’s turn to look confused, it’s clear from the look on his face he doesn’t know who’s on the other end. I sigh as I stand up and pick up the phone.

“Hello?” I say in a bored voice.

“Hi, Catnip–” I hang up the phone, setting it roughly back on the base. I turn around to see both men staring at me with their brows furrowed.

“Wrong number,” I say harshly, scowling between the pair of them as if challenging them to ask me to elaborate. Peeta turns quickly back to his work, unfortunately Haymitch takes the bait.

“Sweetheart, there’s a list of about ten people in the world who are allowed to have your phone number right now. For your protection.” 

Well, that’s news to me. “Who made the list?” I demand.

“I did,” says Haymitch calmly.

“Well, you got one of them wrong,” I say. 

Peeta turns around again, and looks a little relieved to see Haymitch looking as lost as he probably feels. 

“Is it–” Haymitch starts.

“Just drop it, okay? I can handle him. And don’t go adding anyone else to the list without running it by me,” I say.

“‘Him?’” Haymitch raises his eyebrows. “I figured that one was a pretty safe bet.”

Haymitch and I glare at each other while Peeta looks between the two of us.

“Well you figured wrong, now drop it, ” I say through gritted teeth.

I’m irritable throughout dinner. No matter how hard Peeta tries to bring me into conversation, I give short replies and mostly keep my eyes on my plate as I push the food around. It always throws me off when Gale calls, but I find tonight that my anger is focused at Haymitch. He would’ve known better if I had gotten the chance to tell him what I learned about the parachute bombs. If he hadn’t blown me off and dismissed it as “boy trouble.”

So I sit and listen. Haymitch and Peeta discuss the rebuilding of the District, which is apparently moving into “Phase Two”, whatever that means. They talk about have you heard from Johanna lately and did Effie tell you about her new job and I heard Paylor’s doing an address soon . Despite my best efforts, I feel my mood lifting as I listen to them. By the time Peeta pulls out a tray of warm cookies for dessert, I’ve put Gale far enough out of my mind to crack a smile.

Peeta hangs around awkwardly in the entryway when Haymitch leaves. I can tell Peeta’s trying to read my mood and decide if I want him to go or not. Now that we’ve started the memory book, it’s become a habit for us to work on it after dinner, but we decided earlier in the week that we would take a break on Sundays. I wish we hadn’t now, though. Even though working on the book is quiet and painful, I like how it gives Peeta a reason to stay longer into the evening. Most nights he stays until one of us–usually me–is too tired to keep working. 

“You can hang out here even if we’re not doing the book tonight. If you want to,” I add.

“I can do the dishes,” Peeta says quickly, but I wave the offer away.

“They can wait until tomorrow, take the night off,” I say, leading him towards the couch.

It’s a big couch, but we still manage to sit so close that our shoulders brush together. A new habit, I guess, as most nights we need to sit close enough to see each other’s work. Still, neither of us makes any attempt to move further away.

We hardly ever have time like this, where neither of us is painting or writing or cooking or gutting squirrels. It’s nice, but I don’t really know what to do with myself. After a few minutes, I allow my head to drop down onto his shoulder. It’s perfectly friendly , I remind myself.

“Are you okay?” Peeta asks quietly. I know he wants to ask more about the phone call, and if he asks I’ll tell him because I promised honesty, but I really don’t want to talk about it yet.

“Yeah, just annoyed at Haymitch,” I deflect with a sigh. “I’ll get over it.”

Peeta contemplates for a moment. “I get mad at him sometimes, too,” he admits. “I really try not to blame him for what happened to me, and most days I don’t, but sometimes–”

“I do,” I blurt out. “I’ll always blame him for that.”

“You don’t mean that,” Peeta says.

“Has he ever told you how he got that scar under his eye?” I ask.

Peeta looks at me curiously. “No, but I’ve wondered about it.”

“I did that with my fingernails,” I say quietly, looking down at my lap, “When he told me you had been left behind.”

Peeta gives a sad little laugh, his face a mix between pity and resignation.

“It must’ve been awful for him. The only two people he cares about in the world, sent back into the arena,” he muses aloud. “I was mad, at first, when I realized he promised both of us he’d save the other. But he really thought he could do it. It must’ve been unbearable for him when it went sideways.”

“We were both miserable,” I admit. “I think we’ll always blame each other and we’ll always blame ourselves. But we both knew that we were the only ones who understood the others’ pain when you were gone.”

Peeta pats my knee lightly. “Well, I don’t blame either of you,” he whispers, “so try to go easy on each other, okay?”

I nod, and I’m halfway to putting my head back on his shoulder when I’m hit with a realization.

“Wait. You haven’t told me what you did while you were ‘on the phone with Delly,’’’ I remind him.

“Oh!” Peeta snickers. “I moved all his furniture a couple inches to the right.”

“You… what? ” I ask, starting to laugh. “Why would you do that?”

“You can’t ignore the art of the subtle prank. You’ve got to have balance. It can’t all be salty muffins and marker mustaches. Sometimes you’ve got to just switch out his knife for a spatula and see if he notices,” he says.

“Have you done all that to him?” I ask with a laugh.

“Maybe.”

“But what’s the point of moving his furniture? Will he even notice?” I ask.

“You’re underestimating muscle memory. Nothing in that house has moved for a quarter of a century, it might not look different but he’s bound to run into a couple of things and get confused.”

“So you’re cursing him to a life of stubbed toes and bruises?” I ask lightly.

“Yeah, well.” Peeta shrugs. “He left me in an arena.”

April 17

Peeta and I are in the kitchen, with soft music playing over the radio. It’s a funny little thing. Peeta says at some point we should be able to get music chips for it so we can listen to whatever music we like, but for now we’re at the mercy of the Capitol-run stations. And there aren’t many active at the moment. But we’ve found one– Folk & Country, the announcer calls it–that sounds like home.

Peeta bought the radio with his last shipment. He’s been making all kinds of odd purchases. Strange flavored candies and spices I’ve never heard of and little gadgets that he tinkers with from time to time. When I asked him about it he gave some vague answer about “helping the economy.” I think it really has something to do with his new quest for fun, and maybe a little with the fact that he has lots of money and very few responsibilities at the moment. 

“How do I know when this is done?” I ask as I stir the pot of pasta Peeta’s left me in charge of.

It’s our fourth night of cooking dinner on our own. Sae is cooking more and more for the reconstruction workers, and we all decided that Peeta and I were ready to start cooking for ourselves. It took me two nights to realize that I could trick Peeta into letting me help under the guise of asking him to teach me to cook. 

Peeta comes up next to me, his hand ever so lightly brushing along my back to alert me to his presence. He takes the slotted spoon I’ve been using to stir and fishes out a few noodles, plucking one and popping it into his mouth.

“Almost there, give it a few more minutes. You want them a little softer,” he says approvingly, holding another noodle up toward my mouth for me to taste. It’s chewy and bland, but my mouth has been watering at the smell of the cheese sauce Peeta’s making, so I’m just hoping it’ll taste alright in the end.

It’s nice, cooking with Peeta. I like having him around the house more. I like that he doesn’t make as many excuses to hang around anymore, although he still does the dishes every night. I wonder if he knows how much I like having him around. I should probably tell him that at some point.

“What do you think?” he asks a minute later, holding up a small spoonful of the coveted cheese for me to try.

“Mmm,” I hum, “Forget about the pasta, I just want a bowl of that.”

Peeta smiles warmly. “You won’t be saying that once you try them together.” He gives my braid a playful tug as he scoots past me to check the rabbit in the oven, and I let out an involuntary little laugh.

It’s not quite the same, but I’m reminded of dinners with my family growing up. There was never this much food, but there was laughter and music. My mother laughing softly at words whispered just for her, my father singing as he prepped whatever he had gotten in the woods that day. The two of them orbiting around each other in our tiny kitchen like the seamless team that they were.

“Oh, I know this song,” I say suddenly.

“Really?” Peeta asks.

I close my eyes and I’m transported back to that little kitchen and my father’s voice. Only something’s not quite right, and it’s not just that I don’t care for the singer’s voice.

“No, well, the words are different. But I recognize the melody,” I say.

Peeta gives a thoughtful hum. “Wonder how that happens. Unless the song existed before the Dark Days?” he muses.

“Maybe. The lyrics I know might’ve been a bit too rebellious for the Capitol, anyway,” I say.

“What are–”

The door bursts open loudly and someone stomps into the house. Peeta snaps his head around, and on instinct I’ve already grabbed a knife and I’m poised to throw it when I see who it is. At the sight of Haymitch I drop the knife down to my side.

“That’s it!” Haymitch roars. “Stop messing with my shit!”

I quickly busy myself with putting the knife back and stirring the pasta again, desperately trying not to laugh.

“What do you mean?” Peeta asks, a little too innocently.

“You wanna see the bruises on my legs from the number of times I’ve run into my table?” Haymitch snarls.

“I think you’re drinking too much, you’ve got to watch where you’re going,” Peeta says casually.

“This isn’t funny, boy, I’ve lived in that house over twenty-five years,” Haymitch yells. “Never had an issue until suddenly Mr. Jokester shows up. Now all the time I’ve got ink on my face and bruises and–” 

He suddenly freezes, looking down at a bowl of candy Peeta set out earlier today. Without warning, he grabs the bowl and starts launching the sweets at Peeta.

“What’d you do to these, huh?” he shouts. 

“Haymitch, what the hell–” Peeta flinches slightly to dodge the attack, although Haymitch’s aim is so bad he misses most of them anyway. But then one hits Peeta square in the forehead and he stumbles back slightly in surprise, and I step in between them.

“Enough!” I roar. “Haymitch, get out of my house.”

Haymitch gives a scoff and takes a step back unsteadily. Then he looks between the two of us and bursts out laughing. I haven’t seen him this drunk in a long time.

“You really are just like him, aren’t you?” he slurs. I can’t begin to understand what he means, but he’s so drunk I doubt it’s coherent anyway. 

We watch Haymitch stumble out and hear the front door slam behind him.

“Well, that was fun,” Peeta says sarcastically.

“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned.

“I’m fine, Katniss. I’ve been hit with a lot worse things than a couple of gumdrops.”

I start to clean the candy from the floor. “ Did you do anything to them?” I ask.

“No, I ordered them from the train. They’re just–” Peeta trails off when he sees I’ve popped one of them into my mouth. My eyes instantly start to water. “–really sour,” he finishes apologetically.

I run over to the sink and desperately try to flush out my mouth.

“I trusted you!” I gasp.

“I didn’t think you were about to eat them right off the floor!” 

“Well I wasn’t about to waste them, do you know me at all?” I chastise him.

For a second Peeta looks genuinely offended at this accusation. Then suddenly he makes a swipe for the rest of the gumdrops in my hand. He throws the entire handful into his mouth at once.

“Why the hell would you do that?” I say, biting back laughter at the look on his face.

“I’m very serious about reducing food waste as well,” he says solemnly with tears streaming down his face. 

I let out a soft laugh and shake my head. “You’re ridiculous,” I say.

After dinner, Peeta tells me to get the book set up while he goes over to check on Haymitch. He returns a few minutes later.

“He said he was sorry. He’s drunker than I’ve seen in a while,” Peeta shrugs. “Just said something about a bad experience with gumdrops.”

“Well I can’t say I’m all that fond of them, either,” I say, scowling in the direction of the kitchen.

“Yeah, lots of reasons that those won’t be going on the list for my next order,” Peeta agrees, taking his spot next to me on the couch. “And I’m going to have to go over there tomorrow and move all his furniture back.”

“So I take it your pranking days are over?” I ask.

“Not forever, but for now I think I’d better take a break,” Peeta says. 

“It was nice while it lasted,” I say. “And you certainly accomplished your goal of making us laugh more.”

Peeta’s warm smile mirrors my own, and for a moment his eyes dart down to my lips. For a moment an inexplicable thrill runs through me. Then his eyes return to mine and I return to my senses.

“I certainly did,” he says quietly.

– – –

Later that night, a loud clap of thunder jolts me from sleep. The gentle rain that had lulled me to sleep has now escalated into a full thunderstorm. It’s not unusual for me to fall asleep on the couch while we’re working on the memory book, but I am surprised to find my head resting on Peeta’s lap. I don’t remember laying down, but I’m so comfortable I decide to try and fall back asleep before Peeta notices…

“I should probably go home,” he says. 

I sigh, pulling myself up into a sitting position. “How do you do that?” I ask incredulously.

“Do what?” says Peeta, frowning.

“You always know as soon as I’m awake, even if I don’t move or anything!”

“Oh,” Peeta chuckles, “you make this little noise every time you wake up. Well, not when you’re having a nightmare, but when you wake up naturally. It’s kind of like…” he demonstrates by taking a sharp inhale through his nose, then releasing the air with a hum.

I gape at him. “I don’t do that,” I say petulantly.

“Yeah, you do,” he says adamantly, “It was one of the first things I remembered about you that wasn’t tampered with at all.”

I smile a little at this, but then his previous words sink in. “Peeta, you can’t go home in this storm.”

“It’s not like it’s far, I’ll be fine” he says dismissively. 

“I won’t let you out into a lightning storm with a metal leg!” The image of Peeta after hitting the forcefield swims behind my eyes. “Please, don’t go,” I say, panicked.

“Okay, Katniss. I’ll stay until the storm stops,” he agrees.

“That could be hours from now. Why don’t you just sleep here?” I ask.

I’ve done it, said the words I’ve been holding back for a month. The words hang thick in the air for what might be several seconds or several days.

“I shouldn’t…” Peeta mumbles. Whether he’s setting a boundary I’ve failed to maintain or he just doesn’t want to sleep with me, I try to swallow my disappointment quickly.

“You don’t have to…sleep in my bed,” I say, embarrassed. “There’s the room down here, or I think my mother’s room is clean.” I don’t offer Prim’s room, I’m sure Peeta understands.

“I don’t have…pajamas,” he says weakly.

“Yes you do,” I say, eyes lighting up, “I still have the pajamas I borrowed from you last week.”

He considers this for a moment, looking more at ease now that his concerns have been addressed. 

“I’ll sleep in your mother’s room,” he says slowly, “That way I’m nearby if you have a nightmare."

I brighten at this, and soon we are packing up the memory book for the night. Peeta follows me to the foot of the stairs, then pauses. His face is puzzled, like he’s working something out.

“Katniss…you want me to stay, don’t you?” There’s something searching in his gaze. I smile softly at him as I take his hand and respond in the only way I know how.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

The television drones on quietly as I sit with Peeta on the couch, my legs draped across his lap. He’s using my knees to prop up his sketchbook. Occasionally I look up from the paragraphs I’m writing about Madge to see if I recognize the portrait he’s working on. I can now identify it as one of Peeta’s friends, a town kid whose name I can’t remember. 

In the week since the storm, Peeta has informally moved into my house. Neither of us would dare to call it that out loud, but we both know that Peeta has no intentions of going back to sleeping at his house. At first he would still go back to his house in the morning to shower and change clothes, but I’ve noticed that his toothbrush and his soaps and more of his clothes have made their way into the house.

He still sleeps in my mother’s old room, and no matter how much I wish he’d just sleep in my bed I don’t push back. Whatever his reason is, I know that Peeta has always been respectful of my feelings and my boundaries, and the least I can do is give him that same respect. Besides, even without my asking we reach enough of a compromise to placate me for the time being. The first time I had a nightmare with him staying over, I woke up to find him already there, holding and soothing me. I think he leaves once I’ve fallen back asleep, but now he’s always there when the nightmares come.

I hear Peeta scoff at the television, and I look up to find Caesar Flickerman giving an overly emphatic weather report. I stare in disbelief. Nearly everyone who was considered complicit with the Games and not vital to the rebel cause was executed in those few weeks of Coin’s interim presidency. “I can’t believe he’s still–” 

I glance back over to Peeta to find his eyes shut tightly. He balls his fists up too, unfortunately crumbling the portrait in his hand. Just as he holds me during my nightmares, we’ve learned that it’s safe for me to hold him during his flashbacks. I’m not sure if it really does anything to help bring him out of it, but we agree that it certainly doesn’t hurt anything. I whisper my usual chants of Peeta, you’re safe and not real and it’s all over now into his ear until I feel his tension release.

He sighs as he looks down at the ruined portrait. “Sorry, Jack,” he mutters, leaning forward to set his supplies on the table then wrapping his arms around me, too.

“April 25th, 6:45, Caesar Flickerman,” I recite for him to record in his notebook.

“Well that’ll be a new one for Aurelius,” Peeta says dryly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, resting my chin on his shoulder.

He sighs. “Not much to say, really. They beat the shit out of me, then filmed me with Caesar, then drugged me and beat me some more. Not hard to see the connection there.”

I wince. I hate hearing any details about his torture. It just adds more fodder to those nightmares where I see him thin and pale and bloody.

“Do you want tea or anything?” I ask.

“I’m okay, it was just a little one,” he says with a hint of a smile.

In the month or so since that first flashback I witnessed, I’ve noticed them decreasing in both frequency and intensity. It’s rare these days for it to debilitate him the way they did when he first came home. 

“Maybe we should turn off the TV, just to be safe,” I say impishly.

“Katniss, I want to see this. And I offered to watch it at my house,” he reminds me. 

“I know, I know,” I mutter. 

President Paylor is doing her first address to the nation since being sworn in. She’s set to give some sort of update about recent government changes and new policies and the phases of reconstruction happening in each district. Having been far too involved in politics over the past couple years, I would prefer to remain blissfully unaware of anything happening outside my own front door. Peeta, however, is very interested to see these first glimpses of a new Panem. 

Just before the address is about to start I set the memory book onto the table and eye Peeta’s sketchbook. I need something to keep me occupied, but I only like working on the memory book when I can give it my full attention.

“Can I borrow this?” I ask Peeta.

He gives me a quizzical look but says, “Sure, go ahead.”

The new seal of Panem flashes across the screen with no anthem to accompany it, then there is Paylor at a podium. I lean my head back on Peeta’s shoulder and find a blank page in his sketchbook. I spend most of the speech doodling. The doodles are nothing special, just little plants and abstract patterns mostly, but it’s enough to keep my hands busy.

It doesn’t distract me enough to tune out her speech entirely, though. From what I can tell it’s a very broad generalization of how we have all suffered but the only way we can move forward is together, and so on. Admittedly it’s fairly moving, but it’s lacking in any of the logistics of rebuilding a nation that I was expecting.

When her speech is over the camera pans over to a line of men and women in chairs behind her. Apparently each person is considered an expert in different fields related to the rebuilding, so each one will give a short update on their specialty. I’m able to tune them out entirely. Until I hear a voice that hits me like a knife to the gut.

The banner along the bottom of the screen reads Gale Hawthorne, District 2: Military Captain , but if it wasn’t for his voice I wouldn’t know it was him. Not right away, at least. He looks big; as strong as he’s always been, but much more filled out now that he’s probably eating consistently well for the first time in his life. He’s in a well tailored military uniform, and I wonder what the boy I met in the woods all those years ago would say if he could see himself dressed more like a Peacekeeper than a hunter. It’s his face that’s most jarring, though. He’s got a thick but neatly groomed beard, and his hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, falling well past his ears.

It’s the first time it’s really hit me how much time has passed. It’s been nearly four months since I shot Coin, since the last time I saw Gale. It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, maybe because I spent the majority of that time checked out, but looking at the changes in Gale it’s hard to deny that time has gone on with or without me.

I don’t hear a single word he says, I just sit stare at the screen, trying to reconcile the image of the man in front of me with the boy who was once my best friend. I hadn’t realized that I had moved, but when I become aware of my body again I find that I’m sitting straight up and I’ve put quite a bit of distance between myself and Peeta. I cringe, imagining what it must’ve looked like to him, to see me suddenly move away from him and turn my apparent complete attention to the screen I’ve been ignoring.

I chance a sideways glance at Peeta. He’s enraptured by the broadcast, taking in every detail, but after a few seconds his eyes dart sideways to me. He flashes me a little smile when our eyes meet, but there’s no hiding the sadness behind it. 

I turn sideways again and tuck my knees up to my chest. I lean my head against the back of the couch, and wait for the broadcast to end. I end up just looking at Peeta for the rest of it. Nearly four months ago he didn’t love me, didn’t know if he could trust me, but still protected me from my own nightlock pill because we protect each other . It’s been two months since he came home, a little over a month since we started really talking again, and now he practically lives in my house. It seems so fast when you really think about it, but sometimes things grow quickly in a short amount of time. And now, all I can see is how long his hair is.

When the broadcast ends Peeta switches off the TV then turns to me, obviously trying to read my expression.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.

I frown at him. “Do you like your hair that length?”

Whatever Peeta was expecting me to say, it was not this. He bursts out laughing, giving an exasperated shake of his head. “Is that your way of telling me you don’t like my hair this length?”

“No, I don’t mean that…” I sigh, frustrated. Personally, I do think he’d look better with slightly shorter hair, but that’s not the point. “I just meant that we had teams of people controlling our appearance for a long time. I wasn’t sure if you were growing it out because you wanted to or if it’s just because there’s no one to cut it.” 

Peeta considers this for a moment. “I guess a little bit of both. I definitely like it longer than my prep team ever kept it, but I’d probably go shorter than this if I had someone to cut it now.”

“I can cut it,” I offer quickly, “if you want me to.”

Peeta stares at me for a moment. “Right now?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

I shrug. “Why not?”

“Have at it,” he says with a chuckle.

I sit Peeta at one of the stools from the kitchen island, which puts him just below my eye level. Immediately, I wish I hadn’t offered. I’m worried I’ll mess up and ruin his hair. Peeta must sense my hesitancy, because he says, “Katniss, it’s just hair. It’ll grow back. And even if it’s uneven the curl will help hide it.” That boosts my confidence enough for me to make the first cut.

For a while we don’t talk at all, just listen to the snip of the scissors on his golden locks as I concentrate all my attention on cutting as evenly as possible.

“Were you listening to the broadcast at all?” Peeta finally asks.

“Not really,” I admit. “Well, I heard most of Paylor’s speech.”

“What did you think?” he asks.

“It was alright, kind of generic.” I shrug. “What did you think, of that and the rest of the broadcast?” I don’t really care to know the details, but I care about Peeta’s opinion.

“I liked it,” he says, “I mean, we’ve definitely still got a long way to go but it was nice to see the government actually enacting policies that will benefit us for a change.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“LIke…they’re officially opening the borders next week,” he says.

I frown at this. “Weren’t they already open?” Not that I’d know, I guess, since I’m not allowed to leave Twelve.

“Not entirely. They needed to manage the distribution of people to the districts,” He explains. “Everywhere took a hit, but they wanted to make sure that people didn’t just flood to the most intact districts and leave places like Twelve to further disrepair. Up until now you could only travel to your home district, or you could get special permission to travel if you have a government assigned job. That’s why the only people who’ve returned here besides us are the ones working on the reconstruction. I have a feeling it’ll start getting busier around here soon.”

“You really think more people will come back?” I wonder, if given an option, if I would really come back here. It’s home, I guess, but it also hurts so much to remember what happened here.

“Yeah, definitely,” says Peeta, ever the optimist. “I mean, Delly’s been begging to come home since the war ended. I bet she’ll be on the first train back, and she won’t be the only one. I’m sure there's plenty more who just want to come home, even if there’s not much left of it.”

“But…Delly’s from Twelve,” I say, confused. “You just said people can travel to their home district.”

“Ah, yes. That’s the catch. Anyone who held residence in Thirteen when the war ended is legally considered a citizen of Thirteen,” Peeta explains.

“Is that why it took so long for you to come home? Because you had to get approval to travel?” I wonder aloud.

“Well, technically speaking I’m pretty much the only natural citizen of Twelve. Since I was never discharged from the hospital and my home is intact here I was able to make a pretty solid case.” He chuckles a little, “No, it took me so long because I was crazy, remember?”

“You shouldn’t say that,” I admonish in a lighthearted tone. “You were mentally disoriented .”

He laughs. “Right, that’s what it said on my bracelet.”

“Yeah, mine too,” I admit.

It’s Peeta’s turn to be confused. “When was that?”

“The first month in Thirteen. Johanna gave me a concussion in the arena,” I clarify.

“It took a month for you to recover from a concussion?” he asks, surprised.

“Yeah. Well, no. I mean…” I take a deep breath. How can I begin to explain what a waking nightmare that first month was? “Peeta I thought you were dead. The concussion was part of it but…mostly I was just grieving.”

Peeta frowns deeply. “But…you knew I was alive. I did that interview with Caesar specifically to make sure you knew I was alive.”

I shake my head. “They didn’t air it until a month after.”

“But why would they…” He’s lost in thought for a while, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle. “Do you think it was the Capitol or Thirteen that waited to air it?”

I try to recall the events of that day. It was the first time they took me to Twelve. Did hidden Capitol cameras see me? But later that night I was called into command…like they knew what was coming. Did Snow wait to officially make Peeta his mouthpiece until he had proof I was alive, or did Coin manipulate the situation so that I would see Peeta at my most vulnerable?
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “Could be either, I guess. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. I can see how either way it was meant to manipulate me.”

“Yeah,” Peeta agrees sadly. “Well for what it’s worth I really tried to die for your sake.” I wince at these words, but he continues, “Once I understood that they were keeping me alive, I knew it would be a kindness to both of us if I was gone.”

I wish we would talk about anything else but curiosity gets the better of me. “When did you realize they were keeping you alive?”

“Oh, about a day after the forcefield blew. I spit in Snow’s face and I wasn’t, you know, shot on site, so I figured it out from there,” he recalls.

I freeze midway through lining up my next cut. “Peeta you… what ?!”

“I spit in Snow’s face. Right in the eye,” he says proudly.

I make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I was trying to make deals for your immunity and you were spitting on the president with a death wish.” Despite myself, I have to laugh at it. Peeta joins in.

“Well we’re both here now, so I’d say it worked out well enough,” he says quietly.

When I finish cutting his hair, I take a step back and examine my work.

“I think I’m done here,” I say.

“How do I look?” he asks.

“Handsome as ever,” I say, distractedly, my eyes still darting around his head to make sure it’s all even enough. It’s not until I see the slight blush in his cheeks that I realize what I said. My own face follows suit.

“Well, thanks,” he says with a soft laugh.

Peeta makes quick work of sweeping up the hair from the ground. I wanted to leave it until morning, but he’s afraid Buttercup will investigate and choke on it or something. When we’re ready for bed, we climb the stairs together before saying good night and parting towards our separate bedrooms.

I wake up to a scream, but for once it’s not my own.

“Peeta!” I gasp, jumping out of bed. I move dizzily towards the sound, still half asleep, and it takes me a moment to remember he’s in my mother’s room.

I burst into the room and find him unharmed, just deeply entrenched in a nightmare. It must be a bad one; Peeta never makes noise when he dreams. The deep, guttural cries coming out of him break my heart. I climb into bed with him and whisper all the things I say to him when he has a flashback, but I leave out not real . Whatever he’s seeing, I know too well that these are the cries of a grief that is very much real.

It takes a few minutes to pull him out of the dream, my voice getting increasingly frantic. Finally his eyes fly open, round with fear.

“Katniss?” he chokes out. Tears begin to fall from his eyes when he blinks. “I thought you were dead.”

My nightmares are usually about losing you, I remember. So that’s still true, I guess.

“It was just a nightmare, Peeta,” I say gently as I push his sweaty curls away from his forehead.

“No, no, it was real,” he says shakily, “The memory was real.” He suddenly pulls himself up into a sitting position, bringing me with him. He wraps both arms around me as tightly as he can without hurting me, and starts to sob. I lightly rub my hand up and down his chest, since there’s not much else I can do for him in this position.

“I saw them pull you from the arena,” he whispers moments later. “I was just close enough that I could see your braid hanging down from the claw. I thought…I thought I had just missed the cannon in the rest of the chaos.”

“Oh, Peeta…” I whisper back miserably. I remember everything I felt when he hit the forcefield and his heart stopped. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to watch a hovercraft remove his body.

“When they took me to the Capitol, I didn’t even register any of it,” he says shakily. “I didn’t understand what was happening, only that you were gone and I couldn’t…I couldn’t carry on. I was so distraught that Snow came to speak with me personally. I didn’t care, I just knew that he had killed you and he would have to kill me too. That was why I spit at him. I just wanted it to end quickly, but when it didn’t…I realized he had to be telling the truth. That you were alive and safe with the rebels somewhere.”

“I’m so sorry, Peeta,” I say, because I don’t know what else I can say.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I’m just so happy you’re alive,” he says, holding me tighter for a moment. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
I give a sharp laugh that surprises us both, “You just need to wake me up about a hundred more times then we’ll be even.” He chuckles.

It’s close enough to dawn that neither of us goes back to sleep. Peeta keeps holding me. We sit together in silence as we watch the sun rise through the open window.

The next evening Peeta and I are in good spirits, despite our early start to the day. I had a particularly good day in the woods, and after dropping off enough rabbits for Sae to feed the construction team I was still left with enough squirrels for Peeta to teach me his family stew recipe. Peeta also got a call from Delly to tell him she and her brother will be coming home on the train next Monday. 

I’m in the middle of gutting the third squirrel when the phone rings.

“Damn, that’ll be my mother,” I say, looking down at my disgusting hands.

“Do you want me to get it?” Peeta asks, already moving towards the phone.

“Yeah, just tell her I’m elbow-deep in squirrel guts and I’ll call back in a few.”

“Words every mother loves to hear,” he says, laughing as he picks up the phone. 

“Hello?” The smile falls from his face suddenly and is replaced with something unreadable. “Uh, yeah. Hey Gale.” I wince. Peeta frowns deeply. “I’ve been home for a couple months,” he says. 

For a moment, hurt registers on his face, and I can’t blame him. As far as Peeta knows, he must think that I’ve been speaking to Gale regularly and not only keeping it from him, but also keeping the fact that he’s here and living in my house from Gale.

“Yeah, she’s here…” he moves to hand the phone to me, forgetting about the squirrel guts, when I start shaking my head frantically. I can see his confusion increase even more, but to Peeta’s credit he’s always been able to spin a good lie. “Well I mean, sorry, she’s here but she’s in the shower right now. I’ll let her know you called and I’m sure she’ll call you back as soon as she can.” He pauses, frowning even deeper still. “Oh…well I can write it down,” he says slowly. I watch as he jots down Gale’s number on the list we keep near the phone. “Okay, I’ll let her know. Bye.”

He stares at the phone for a moment. He’s so deeply confused, and I don’t know how to even begin to explain it all to him.

“That was Gale,” he finally says.

“I heard,” I say flatly. I can see all the questions forming behind his eyes. “Peeta, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

He studies me for a second. “Will you tell me eventually?

I sigh. “Yes. Eventually.” But then I remember the hurt in his eyes and know that some of this needs to be addressed now. “I haven’t spoken to him since the day of the execution. And I don’t plan to speak to him ever again, if I can help it. I just hang up every time he calls.”

I watch him process this news, still confused but definitely less troubled than before. He gives a big sigh and nods slowly. “Okay. We can talk about it when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. We’re smiling at each other tentatively when the phone starts ringing again. 

“ That’s got to be my mother,” I groan and look down at my hands again.

“Squirrel guts. Elbows. I’ve got it,” Peeta says with a light laugh.

Chapter Text

On the day of Delly’s arrival, Peeta abandoned his usual morning routine of baking and painting to meet her and her brother, Dillon, at the train station. I still went to the woods because Dr. Aurelius says it’s good for me to maintain my routines, and because it’s good for Peeta to have time with his friend, and alright because I really didn’t want to deal with crowds on the platform. Besides, I knew I’d have plenty of time to talk to Delly when she came over for dinner the next night.

Peeta thought it was a joke at first. He had offered to have Delly at his house for dinner on Tuesday, after she had time to get settled into the temporary housing that’s been put up the past week. So when I said “Why don’t we just have her over here?”, he laughed.

“I’m serious, why would you have dinner at your house? You’ve barely been there in weeks.” I was right, even if I just didn’t want to admit how much I hated the idea of eating here alone.

“Right, but she’s my friend. It would be rude for me to invite her to your house,” Peeta pointed out.

“I like Delly, too.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “I do! I mean, she’s a little bubbly for my taste but she’s alright.” I thought about the way she defended me to Peeta’s hijacked mind, how much she was there for him when I should’ve been. “She’s your friend, I want to get to know her too.”

“Okay,” he said, amused, “I’ll let her know dinner’s at your house then.” And that was the end of that discussion.

So now I stand in front of the full length mirror I so often avoid. I’m in a simple light pink dress with soft black leggings. The dress is one that my mother left behind from her merchant days; I guess she decided she doesn’t need fancy dresses in District Four. My hair is in its usual braid, although I’ve tied a matching pink ribbon from Prim’s room into a bow at the end. 

I continue to scowl in the mirror, fussing with the dress. This shade of pink might’ve looked nice against my mother’s fair skin, but it looks all wrong with my coloring. I sigh and trudge down the stairs, anyway.

I frown again when I meet Peeta in the kitchen. He’s just in jeans and a dark blue shirt that makes his blue eyes shine brilliantly. I feel very overdressed in comparison.

“You look nice,” he says with an amused grin.

“Why are you laughing at me?” I scowl.

“I’m not…you’re just very dressed up for dinner at your house,” he concedes. “I mean, Delly only has District Thirteen uniforms still, so I didn’t mean for this to be a formal event,” he adds tactfully.

“I’m changing,” I declare, turning quickly on my heel. Peeta catches my hand before I go.

“Hey, you really do look very nice,” he says seriously. I mutter a thanks and quickly dart up the stairs, trying to ignore how hot my face feels all of a sudden.

Delly knocks on the door at five o’clock, sharp. I hear Peeta answer the door and I go quickly to find something more casual to wear. I end up keeping the leggings and the ribbon, but exchange the dress for a dark gray sweater of Peeta’s that somehow found its way into one of my drawers.

“Katniss! It’s so good to see you!” Delly exclaims as I come down the stairs. She pulls me into a tight hug. I pat her awkwardly on the back until she releases me. 

“It’s good to see you, too, Delly,” I say.

“It’ll still be a little while until dinner’s ready,” says Peeta as he gestures to us towards the living room.

“That’s okay! I’m just looking forward to catching up with you two,” says Delly brightly.

“Delly, can I get you tea or anything?” I offer.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” she responds kindly.

“Any preference? It’s mostly medicinal tea but we’ve got a pretty wide variety.”

“Oh, anything is fine,” she says.

I glance at Peeta for help, hoping either he knows Delly’s tastes or that he’ll make a decision for me.

“What about that berry mix you made the other day?” he suggests. I nod gratefully. 

I arrange three mugs of tea and the sugar jar onto a tray while Delly tells Peeta about life in Thirteen post-Coin. I’m rather glad for the excuse to be out of the room for that one. From what I can hear, I’m not exactly popular in Thirteen at the moment. Once the water’s been poured, I add a generous scoop of sugar into my own mug and leave the sugar jar next to Delly’s mug.

I set the tray on the living room table between them. Delly’s taken the armchair across from the couch that we rarely use. I take my own mug and Peeta’s as I take my seat next to him on the couch.

“No sugar,” I say as I hand him his mug.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile. I catch him noticing the sweater for the first time, giving it a once over before raising his eyebrows at me. I roll my eyes at him dismissively, though I can’t hide the little smirk on my face.

Delly gives a curious look between the two of us. I realize that I’ve once again sat much closer to Peeta than is strictly necessary, but I’m not about to move now.

“Katniss, your house is so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything so grand ,” Delly says. Peeta gently nudges me with his knee to remind me not to say some of the more cynical responses in my mind regarding how I got the house.

“Thank you, Delly,” I say kindly, then take a long sip from my tea to avoid having to say more.

“I’ll have to show you my house sometime, Dell, but we eat most of our meals over here so Katniss was kind enough to offer to host,” says Peeta.

“That, and Peeta’s running out of livable surfaces in his house that don’t have a stack of paintings on them,” I add. Peeta laughs. Delly smiles warmly and looks between the two of us again.

“It’s nice to see you both so happy. I’m so glad you two are finally together,” says Delly innocently. I nearly choke on my tea. Does she mean glad we’re together like we can be in the same room without Peeta going mutt, or together like…

“Oh, Delly, um…Katniss and I are just friends now,” Peeta staggers. Delly’s eyes go wide and she apologizes profusely, and Peeta assures her that it’s alright, it’s an honest mistake. I say nothing.

Just friends. He’s right, of course, so why did my stomach sink? Of course we’re friends, I’m the one who’s been carefully maintaining those lines. Haven’t I? I think back over the past several weeks, the little touches, the increased time spent together. But still, none of it was romantic …right? I try to imagine Delly in place of me during some of the more questionable moments of the past weeks. Delly sitting with her legs in Peeta’s lap. Peeta grabbing Delly’s hand and telling her how nice she looks. Instead of reassuring me, these images fill me with a pang of jealousy I’ve never felt before. 

“Katniss?”

It’s Peeta’s voice that pulls me from my thoughts. I don’t know how long I’ve been out of the conversation. 

“What?” I say, much harsher than I mean to.

“Delly just asked how your mother’s liking District Four,” he says gently.

“Oh. Fine I guess. She doesn’t mention it much, she spends most of her time in the hospital,” I say.

“I hear it’s beautiful there, do you think you’ll go visit her soon?” Delly asks.

“I’m not allowed to travel,” I say shortly.

She looks confused. “But, the borders are open…”

“Not for assassins, apparently,” I say bitterly. 

I don’t know why I’m mad at Delly, except that I’m just so confused now and I want her to leave so I can try to sort through my head without answering incessant questions. 

“Oh, I saw Gale on TV the other day! That’s exciting that he’s a military captain,” Delly says. When I only give a curt nod she continues, “I talked with his family a lot in Thirteen, they were still deciding if they’d go to Two or Twelve when the borders opened. Do you think he’ll come with them if they return?”

“God, I hope not,” I mutter under my breath. 

Peeta shrewdly changes the topic to asking about Delly’s brother, which leads them to reminiscing about their childhood, effectively leaving me out of the conversation. This bothers me too, for reasons I can’t quite place, but I decide it’s probably best if I stay quiet for a while.

I’m so lost in thought that the phone ringing causes me to jump. I almost move to stand automatically, then remember it’s not Monday or Wednesday or Saturday, and there’s no reason to answer that call.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” asks Delly.

“No, it’s okay, it’s probably not important. And I have guests, I don’t want to be rude,” I say. Peeta gives a tiny scoff that lets me know my change in demeanor has not gone unnoticed, although he covers it quickly with a little cough.

“Oh, no, please. I don’t want you to miss calls on my account,” says Delly. 

The phone has stopped ringing by the time she finishes the sentence, but I brace myself for the second call I know is coming. The few seconds between aren’t enough for me to come up with any excuse. When it starts ringing again, I look to Peeta for help but he just gives a tiny shrug that seems to say, just get it over with . And so, with a deep sigh, I go to the phone.

“Hello?” I answer neutrally.

“Hi, Catnip.” I wish he’d stop calling me that. Well, I wish he’d stop calling at all.

“Oh I’m sorry, I have guests over so I can’t talk right now,” I say in a sugar-sweet voice that’s nothing like my own.

He laughs, loudly and meanly. “You can hardly call Peeta a guest if he lives at your house.” Something in his tone makes me wonder if he’s drunk. 

I drop the sweetness. “What are you doing, spying on me?” I hiss. “I would’ve thought District Two had more important uses of their resources.”

“Well you killed the president,” he says, “I’d say it could be justified.” 

A chill runs through me. I hadn’t considered the thought that people could still be watching my every move. 

“Relax,” he says after a few seconds, “No one's watching you. I just assumed your boyfriend must be getting really comfortable in your house if he’s answering the phone while you’re in the shower. Or did he not tell you I called?”

“I was standing right there, Gale,” I say in my most scathing tone, “And I really do have a guest so I should–”

“Katniss, wait. Please . I want to talk to you,” he slurs. He’s definitely drunk.

“Well I don’t want to talk to you!” I yell, slamming the phone back on the receiver. 

So much for being a good host. Angry tears prick my eyes as I try, and fail, to collect myself. I’m grateful that I’m tucked into a corner that’s not visible from the living room, but I know Peeta must’ve heard enough to piece together.

“I’m going to get some more tea, would you like any, Delly?” Peeta offers in the other room. Delly declines politely. I cross my arms and train my eyes away from the entrance to the kitchen. Controlling my breath, refusing to let the tears fall. I hear the soft clink of Peeta’s mug on the counter, the sound of the pouring water from the kettle into his cup. I keep staring at the wall, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. Finally, I feel his featherlight touch on my back and hear the quietest whisper of “Hey.”

I melt into him. It’s not fair that he should have to comfort me when it’s Gale’s mess. Not fair that he should have to leave his friend, who he’s been so excited to see, just to deal with me. Still, he holds me.

“What do you need right now?” he asks gently.

“Nothing, I’m sorry. I’m fine,” I say, quickly wiping one runaway tear from my face.

“It’s okay if you’re not, but let me help. I can send Delly home, we can try this again another night?” he offers.

“No,” I say quickly, “no I want her to have dinner here. I don’t want to ruin any more of this night.” He opens his mouth to protest but I stop him. “I just need…maybe a few minutes where I don’t need to be in host mode. Is that okay?” 

“Absolutely,” he says, “I’ll take her to go look at some paintings. The stew should be ready in about twenty minutes anyway so we’ll come back then?”
I nod. “Thank you, Peeta,” I whisper.

He wipes his thumb under my eye to catch another stray tear. “Of course. We’ll be back soon. You can always call if you need more time.”

Once I hear the front door close I do something I’ve never done before and dial Dr. Aurelius’s number. At first a woman answers the phone and asks if I’m experiencing an emergency or crisis. I tell her no, so she tells me she can take down my name and message so Dr. Aurelius can call me back during his office hours. When I give her my name, she gives a little squeak and says, “My apologies, Ms. Everdeen. I’ll transfer you over immediately,” and then the phone is ringing again.

“Hello, Dr. Aurelius speaking.”

“Hi, this is Katniss,” I say awkwardly. Now I feel bad for bothering him outside of the office. He’ll probably be sitting down to dinner soon.

“Katniss, is everything alright?” He sounds very concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine, I’m sorry I was going to leave a message with the woman but then she transferred me to you anyway.”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “Yes, you’re on a list of a select few patients allowed to call around the clock.” Somehow I have a feeling the select few just means me and Peeta. “I have a few minutes before dinner with my family. Would you like to talk now, or save it for tomorrow’s session?”

I hesitate. “I just…we’re having dinner with Peeta’s friend Delly and I had some…feelings I need to talk through. They went to look at his paintings, they’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

“Well, then, why don’t we talk for fifteen minutes?” he offers kindly.

I tell him everything as fast as I can. Peeta saying we’re just friends, feeling jealous about Delly, Gale calling yet again. I have to give a very brief backstory on Gale, because apparently I’ve never mentioned him in any of my sessions.

“Alright, while I think we should talk about this Gale some more, he doesn’t seem immediately relevant to tonight’s events. So let’s stick a pin in that for now and discuss it some more tomorrow,” Dr. Aurelius says. I agree, although I’d be fine if we just left the pin in it forever.

“It seems like the source of your frustration tonight stemmed from Peeta saying you were ‘just friends’,” he summarizes.

“I guess,” I say.

“And why do you think that upset you?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. Only I think I do, and one of us is going to have to say it. Usually he makes me work for these kinds of things rather than just giving me the answer, but maybe the time constraint will work in my favor tonight. He lets us sit in silence for a full minute before he finally gives in.

“Do you think there’s a chance that you have feelings for Peeta?” he asks.

“No. Maybe? I don’t know…” I blabber. “There’s a chance,” I admit, “But I don’t…I’m not ready to…I don’t know.” I take a deep sigh and try one more time. “I’ve hurt him too many times. If I do have feelings, I can’t–I won’t do anything about it until I’m completely sure.”

“I understand,” says Dr. Aurelius. “So let's try approaching it from a different angle for the time being. You were upset by Peeta saying you were ‘just friends’, and he took notice. He will most likely ask you about it, and you need to be able to hold an honest conversation with him. When was the last time you and Peeta had a conversation about the nature of your relationship where you were both on the same page?”

“Never, really,” I admit. I guess maybe at the beginning of the Victory Tour, when he asked if we could be friends, but even then I was keeping some vital information from him.

“Alright, well since we’re just about at the end of our time I’m going to give you some homework. First, I want you and Peeta to have a conversation about what happened tonight.”

“But I–”

“You don’t have to discuss romantic feelings, but you need to be able to clearly define your relationship as it stands now. If the phrase ‘just friends’ bothers you, you need to make that clear and decide what the best phrase to describe your relationship is.”

“Fine,” I mutter. 

“And one more thing, I think it would be good for you to really try to be friends with Delly. It’s clear that Peeta cares deeply about both of you, and that you care deeply about Peeta, so I believe it’s worth the effort on your part to cultivate that relationship. And who knows, you might even be able to learn new things about Peeta through his childhood friend.”

“Okay, I can do that,” I say.

“Katniss, I’m very glad you called tonight. I’m proud of you for recognizing negative thought patterns and addressing them in a healthy way.”

I roll my eyes at his clinical language, but I have to admit I’m a little proud of myself too. “Thanks, maybe this therapy stuff isn’t so bad all the time. Although it would be even better if we could count this as an hour towards my time,” I suggest.

He laughs, “Do your homework and we’ve got a deal.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I say and we hang up. 

While I wait for Peeta and Delly to get back, I set the table and shut off the stove. I meet them halfway down the hall when I hear them at the front door.

“How were the paintings?” I ask, trying my best to sound lighthearted. Peeta eyes me and gives the tiniest raise of his eyebrow, and I give him a small smile in return.

“I didn’t know he could paint like that! I only saw them before on screen during the tour, but it didn’t do them any justice,” Delly exclaims.

“Isn’t he incredible?” I agree. Peeta quickly ushers us toward the table, but there’s an unmistakable blush across his features. 

Dinner goes smoothly from there. I keep myself present when Delly and Peeta talk about the past. I try to take Dr. Aurelius’ advice and glean what I can about Peeta’s childhood. Delly seems just as eager to hear about what our lives have been like since the war ended. She’s delighted when I tell her the story of the sock doll Peeta made for May Belle.

“I can’t believe you still remember how to make those,” Delly laughs.

“Delly, do you remember how many of those dolls I had to make? It’s ingrained in me forever,” Peeta teases.

“This must be awkward for you,” I say, turning to Peeta, “to have both the mothers of your fake babies in the same room.”

Peeta gapes at my boldness. Delly gives a nervous giggle.

“Oh, no, he was always the uncle when we played babies. He made it very clear that he couldn’t be the daddy because he was not going to marry me.”

Peeta turns his disbelief to Delly now, while I snort with laughter. 

“You know, the same thing happened with a couple of my neighbors in the Seam. It was quite the scandal,” I say. Delly giggles harder.

Peeta gives an exasperated little laugh at the two of us. “I’m sorry, Delly. Why wouldn’t I marry you?” he asks sympathetically.

Her expression softens, “You don’t remember?” Peeta shakes his head. She gives a nervous glance my way before quietly saying, “You told me you couldn’t marry me because you were going to marry the girl who made birds listen when she sang.” 

Peeta scrunches his nose up in an embarrassed smile, a slight blush across his cheeks. I can’t help but notice how cute he looks, but I store that thought away for later consideration.

“Did he really?” I ask softly. Delly nods.

“That sounds about right,” Peeta half-laughs, half-sighs.

After dessert Delly says she should get back home to her brother and we walk her to the door.

“How are the temporary houses holding up so far?” Peeta asks. 

In collaboration with the open borders, the Capitol sent pop up houses to the districts that took the biggest hit. The houses are inexpensive and only take about an hour to assemble, but they don’t sound durable enough to withstand any kind of extreme weather conditions and Peeta says they’re even smaller than the houses in the Seam were. Although I’m not sure I trust him on that one, considering he didn’t have much interaction with the Seam growing up.

“They’re alright, it gets a little chilly at night, but it’ll start warming up soon. And it’s so much better than living underground.” Delly answers.

“Any idea when they’ll start building permanent houses?” I ask.

“They’re hoping to have them done before winter,” Peeta supplies. “As long as the temp houses are working out, Thom wants to start with rebuilding the businesses first so people can have income sources and we can rely less on the Capitol trains.” 

I wonder if Peeta picked up this information at the train station yesterday or if he’s just been doing a better job of tracking the construction efforts than I have.

“You should come see the houses, Katniss, they’re really fascinating! There’s a little kitchen and everything, maybe you two can come for dinner sometime,” Delly offers. “It would be so fun! When can we have you over?”

“Let’s see…” Peeta thinks out loud, “We have therapy tomorrow and I usually try to lay low on those evenings, we have plans on Thursday...” I shoot him a confused look, I wasn’t aware of anything outside of the usual routines. “Why don’t we touch base early next week?”

Delly agrees to this plan and then she really has to go. Dillon was apparently very anxious to be left alone tonight, not that I blame him after the firebombs. There’s hugs all around and then the house is quiet once again. I lean into Peeta for just a moment, reveling in the silence and his steady frame. But I know there are things to discuss, so then I lead him to the couch.

“We have plans Thursday?” I ask Peeta as I sit down, cross-legged and facing him.

“Oh, nothing set in stone yet, but I’ve been meaning to ask you if there’s anything you want to do.” When I give him a bewildered look, he adds, “For your birthday?”

“Oh!” I hadn’t realized that was this week. Part of me just wants to treat it like any other day, but after the year I’ve had I think the day should at least be acknowledged. “I’ll have to think about it,” I tell Peeta.

“Katniss…” he starts quietly, and I brace myself for the conversation I know we have to have, but I really don’t want to. “What happened earlier tonight?”

“I don’t really know,” I admit. Because it’s true. I mean, I’ve got a good guess but I can’t say for sure yet. And if I can’t say for sure, I can’t tell Peeta that part. “But Dr. Aurelius thinks this would be a good time for us to make sure we’re on the same page about…how we define…our relationship,” I say, struggling to get the words out.

He looks momentarily taken aback to learn that I called Dr. Aurelius tonight but he recovers quickly. “Okay, so...” he says slowly, “How would you define our…relationship?”

I consider it for a moment, searching for the right words. 

“We’re best friends,” I decide, “I mean, you’re my best friend, at least.”

Peeta grins. “You’re my best friend too,” he says. 

“Not Delly?” I ask, despite myself.

He shakes his head. “No, Delly’s my oldest friend but…there’s no one else like you, Katniss.” 

The conversation is much easier than I expected, but something in the way my heart is pounding tells me we may have to revisit it sooner rather than later.

The next day, Dr. Aurelius is proud of me for following through, but then he wants to talk about the Gale situation and it’s the first time I really consider hanging up on him. He gets me to talk, though, to give a longer account of our history and speculate on when and why our friendship fell apart, other than the obvious. Because I knew deep down that things were broken between us long before those parachutes exploded.

When he tells me I need to let myself grieve over Gale, I protest. I have enough to grieve already, I’m not adding someone to the list who’s still alive. But his explanation, unfortunately, makes a lot of sense. Even though Gale is alive, the life I had with him is dead. Our relationship cannot ever go back to the way it was, and I’m allowed to mourn that loss. 

The difference, he points out, is that unlike the death of a person, I get to maintain some agency over what happens next. I get a say in if I want to cut off the relationship or allow it to continue in a new form. But he encourages me to mourn first, decide second. 

At two o’clock I see Peeta start to hover outside the study door. Since Peeta started living here, Dr. Aurelius now just stays on the line and I hand the phone over to Peeta when I’m done. I gesture Peeta in and start the hand off, but before I go I make a decision. I grab a sheet of parchment from our memory book supplies and a pen.

“Hold on one second, Doc.” Peeta says, covering the phone speaker with his hand. “Are you working on the book without me?” he asks me.

“No, this is therapy homework, don’t worry,” I tell him. Peeta’s question spurs another idea, and I quickly open one of the desk drawers and snatch the locket from its hiding place. I can tell by Peeta’s face that he recognized it, but he says nothing.

“I’m going to the woods for a bit, I’ll be back by dinner,” I say.

“Okay, see you soon,” he says, slightly confused.

I take my supplies to our old meeting spot in the woods. And then I write. Just as I do with the memory book, I write out every memory too precious to forget, too important to let all the anger destroy. Everything that reminds me that, yes, while some things between us were broken, some things were once so truly good. I let tears fall when they come. I allow myself to mourn the boy I met in the woods all those years ago, who was once my partner and my best friend, who loved me and protected my family as best as he could.

When no more memories or tears come, I pull his photo out of the locket and fold it inside the page. I find a spot where the ground is soft enough for me to dig a small hole, and I bury the paper inside of it. I find a large rock to mark the spot as a sort of memorial. When I rise to leave, everything around me is bathed in a soft orange glow from the sunset, and I think of Peeta, and I’m ready to go home.

Mourn first, decide second. I don’t know if I’ll ever know what to do about Gale, but I know his phone calls have done nothing but make me angry. When I make it through the front door I give Peeta a quick hello then tell him I need to make a call. I stay in the kitchen where the phone base lives, deciding that anything I have to say to Gale, Peeta should probably hear.

With shaky hands I dial the number Peeta copied down the other day. I take several deep breaths while it rings, and then he answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me,” I say.

“Katniss? Is everything alright?” he asks, distressed.

“I’m fine. I just…I need to ask you a favor,” I say slowly.

“Anything,” he says immediately.

“I need you to stop calling me.” 

The silence stretches on for ages, but I know he’s still there, so I continue the words I prepared on my walk home. “Gale, I have so many things I need to work through right now, and, frankly, you’re not in my life anymore so you’re very low on that list. But you…you were right when you said I’d always be thinking about it. And when you call, it brings it all back up at times I’m not prepared to deal with it, and then I just get angry all over again.” 

“I understand,” he says curtly. I know he’s fuming, but at me or himself I’m not sure. But I know I need to say my last piece.

“I know it wasn’t your fault. I do. And I really hope that someday I’ll be able to forgive you for your involvement in all of it.” It’s getting harder to contain the tremor in my voice. “But I can’t do that unless I’m given the space I need to heal, and right now I can’t heal if you keep calling like this. Can you respect that?”

He takes a deep breath. “Yes, I can. But you know you can still call if you need anything, right?”

“I know. Thank you,” I say, grateful for his acceptance.
“Okay,” He pauses, and we both know there’s nothing left to say. “Goodbye Katniss.”

My heart pinches. “Goodbye, Gale.”

When the phone line goes dead, I release the sob I’ve been holding back. I turn to look at Peeta, who’s watching me with concerned eyes and arms half-raised, allowing me to choose if I want his comfort or not. I go to him immediately.

Chapter Text

On the morning of my eighteenth birthday I wake up in an empty bed. This is typical, of course, except for those mornings where Peeta pulls me from the nightmares that hit so close to dawn that I don’t bother falling back to sleep. Yes, I wake up alone most mornings, but something about it feels significant today. Maybe it’s just the fact that I woke up at all, the realization that I’ve made it to a birthday I never planned to have. One that, by all odds, I should not have reached.

As I brush my teeth and wash my face I contemplate the day ahead of me. I could treat it like a normal day. I could wallow in the losses and the trauma of the past year. Yet I find that I don’t want to do either. I decide that today, at least as much as I can control, I am going to have a good day.

My good day starts when I come downstairs and see what Peeta’s been working on. At my normal spot at the table, there’s a large tray of cheese buns arranged in the shape of the number 18.

“Happy birthday,” Peeta says, grinning at me from the stove.

“Thank you,” I say as I pluck the bun from the center of the 8 and pull myself up onto the counter near him. I peek over at his workspace to see a stack of french toast, a bowl of whipped cream, and an assortment of fresh berries. 

Yes, it’s going to be a very good day.

After breakfast, Peeta asks if there’s anything special I want to do today. I try to think about the genuinely pleasant moments I’ve had in my life, even if those are all a little bittersweet now. The look of pure wonder on Prim’s face at the sight of the cakes in the bakery, the lazy hours at the lake with my father that seemed to stretch on for days, the rooftop picnic with Peeta that I thought would be the last time it would be just the two of us.

“Let’s go to the lake,” I decide.

“What lake?” Peeta asks curiously. I’m surprised I’ve never mentioned it until now.

“In the woods, my father used to take me there. It’s a bit of a hike, do you think you’ll…” I trail off. I’ve caught him limping more frequently in the past weeks. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it.

“I’ll be fine,” he says firmly, “we’ll go to the lake. Should we pack a picnic?” 

I beam at him. “Definitely. Bring your sketchbook, too. It’s beautiful, Peeta, you’ll love it.”

We gather everything we need as quickly as possible. Once we’ve packed everything up–food and sketchbook in Peeta’s bag, blankets and water in mine–we separate quickly to change. Peeta goes back to his house, for once, to find clothes more suitable for hiking than the ones he keeps around my house.

I pull on a black tank top and loose pants, ones I’ve worn to the woods hundreds of times. My father’s hunting jacket is too bulky for a day like today, but I wonder if my mother kept anything else of his, maybe a sweater or something. I decide to check her old room, hoping to find some other piece of him I could wear to the lake today.

I’m both disappointed and amused to find that all of the drawers are filled with Peeta’s things instead. It’s not all that surprising, he’s been sleeping here almost a month and I knew he was frequently bringing more things over. I don’t know what I expected, but it makes me smile to see how neatly he’s folded himself into my home.

My eyes catch on a red flannel shirt as I’m shutting the last drawer. It’s thick enough to keep me warm but not as heavy as my jacket if I need to take it off. I try it on. I like the way it fits and the way it smells like Peeta.

I meet him out on the lawn, each of us with our bags ready to go. I take the lead, guiding him towards my normal entry point into the woods by the meadow. It’s a bit further out of the way, and it’s not strictly necessary with so much of the fence gone, but it’s what I’m familiar with and Peeta doesn’t question it. 

“Nice shirt,” he smirks after a moment. I’m surprised to feel my cheeks flush.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to go through your things,” I say quickly, “I was just looking to see if my mother had–I can put it back if you–”

“Katniss, it’s fine!” he says. “I was just teasing you. I don’t care if you go through my things. It’s your house, I probably should’ve asked you before I took over the dresser.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m glad you did.” I offer him a small smile, and he returns it easily.

Once we’ve entered the woods, I notice how Peeta’s eyes dart around in equal parts wonder and alarm. 

“You’ve never been out here, have you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not really. I’ve explored along the edge a little but that’s about it.”

The woods were my safe haven long before the Games, but to Peeta this must just remind him of our first arena.

“Will you be okay?” I ask, and he knows that I understand what he’s feeling.

“Yeah, I heard there’s a beautiful lake somewhere out here,” he says with a smile. “And besides, I’ve got you with me.” He playfully bumps my shoulder with his. But then he frowns slightly. “You didn’t bring your bow.”

“It’s not a hunting day,” I remind him. “I’ve got a few knives if we need them, but I have a feeling the wildlife will mostly leave us alone.”

He raises his eyebrows at me, “Because I’m so loud?” he asks.

I laugh, “Well you said it, not me.” I bump his shoulder back.

As we walk further, I can see the tension lessen in Peeta’s body. He smiles more as he looks around.

“You’ll have to show me around, let me know where the landmarks of the Katniss Everdeen’s life are,” he says.

“It’s just a bunch of trees. They all start to look the same after a while. I don’t really have landmarks …” I trail off as, unfortunately, my eyes find the shelf of rock that was once mine and Gale’s. He notices, of course, and gives me a curious look.

“That was just where we met to hunt,” I say quickly, like ripping a bandage off.

“Oh, okay,” he says. I know he won’t press the topic, he didn’t last night after the phone call. He hasn’t since it first came up. But still, I suddenly feel ready to tell him everything. Or at least to try.

I take a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start.

“Katniss, you don’t have to explain anything,” says Peeta before I can speak.

“I do. I want to,” I tell him. Another deep breath. “There were a lot of issues between Gale and me after I got back from the Games. But…when we got to Thirteen I threw myself into grief and he threw himself into work, and we…grew apart.” 

I pause. I could just leave it at that, but I feel like I owe Peeta the whole truth, so I continue, “He and Beetee started designing all of these traps and bombs. I saw the plans for a bunch of them months before the war ended.” I try to steady my voice, “Including bombs that exploded in two waves. To draw more people in to help the wounded.”

Peeta stops walking and just stares at me. “No,” he says, looking distraught. I nod sadly.

“He never intended for them to be used on children. I’m not sure if he really intended for any of them to be used at all. But I told him that one was crossing a line when it was just hypothetical. Turns out it was even worse in practice.”

“I’m so sorry, Katniss,” he says softly.

“Like I said last night, I know it’s not his fault but…it was the final straw for us,” I say.

I motion for him to continue walking and he follows me. We walk on silently for a few minutes, or as silently as we can with Peeta’s tread.

“I never loved him,” I blurt out, with absolutely no idea what possessed me to say that. I don't know who’s more shocked, me or Peeta.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” says Peeta after a moment.

“I’m not sure that’s your call to make,” I snap back.

Peeta blinks at me a few times then says, “You’re right, I’m sorry. You’ve already had enough people telling you how to feel. I just meant…he was your best friend. You obviously cared about each other a lot. It would surprise me to think you never loved him at all.”

I sigh. “I guess…you’re right.” He was practically family, of course I did. “But I wasn’t in love with him,” I elaborate, “It just never felt right. And maybe if none of this had happened and I didn’t have anything to compare it to I might’ve thought that it was the same thing but…” I trail off.

What did I just say? If I didn’t have anything to compare it to . Peeta has to know that means him, why on earth would I say that?

I shake my head to clear the thought, to try and distract him before my words can really sink in.

“Besides,” I say, “clearly I can survive without him.”

Peeta laughs. “Just for the record, I knew you were awake and I thought that was the dumbest thing he’s ever said.”

I scowl at him. “Well you didn’t exactly deny it.”

Peeta stares at me incredulously. “Katniss, I just wanted to sleep! And, if you’ll recall, I had needed you to confirm that people can’t grow wings just hours before that, so I wasn’t exactly in the best headspace.”

“Fine,” I concede, “But if you were wide awake and in your right mind in that moment, what would you have said?” I challenge him.

Peeta thinks it through. “I would have said…that you can survive just fine on your own.”

I smile at him “You really think that?” I’m thinking that if nothing else, I’ve made a very good decision about who my best friend is.

But then Peeta says, “Well, no. But you asked what I’d say, not what I think.” And I’m tempted to speed ahead and let him find the lake himself.

“Katniss, hold on,” he says, catching my hand. “Will you let me explain?” As if I’d really abandon him here. I raise my eyebrows at him but I make no attempt to pull my hand away so he continues.

“Really, I don’t think it’s a matter of survival at all. Like it or not, you are a person who needs other people to survive. Without other people to care about, your self-preservation instincts are objectively terrible.”

I scowl at him, but he just laughs before he continues.

“But you don’t need romantic love to survive. I mean you’ve spent most of your life just surviving and I think you were more just annoyed at all the romance, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I admit.

“Maybe you’ll never fall in love,” he says with a shrug, “but I think that if you do, it could only happen once you can see past the need to just survive.”

We come across a little clearing and I can tell Peeta’s leg needs a break. It’s also at this point that I realize that I’m still holding his hand. Reluctantly I let go and pull both of our water bottles from my bag, mostly just as an excuse to stop that doesn’t hurt Peeta’s pride.

I take a few long drinks of water while I consider Peeta’s words. It’s hard to fathom how this boy, who was a stranger less than two years ago, has grown to understand my heart so well. How he can love me so well. 

“Did any of that make sense? I mean, what do you think?” Peeta asks nervously.

“I think…I’m really glad you’re my best friend,” I say softly. 

In the early afternoon sun I remove the flannel and tie it around my waist, Peeta follows suit and removes his sweater. When Peeta hands me his bottle and sweater I squat down to repack my bag. I smile to myself when I see I’ve landed next to a little patch of dandelions. My reminder of hope beyond the need for survival. The funny thing is that Peeta doesn’t even realize that’s what he’s been to me all these months. All these years, really. I pluck one and tuck it behind my ear. Peeta says nothing but gives me a curious little smile as we continue walking. 

“Okay, your turn,” I say after a few minutes.

“My turn for what?” Peeta asks.

“We talked a lot about me there. It’s your turn to talk about something complicated and awful. But not entirely depressing,” I say seriously. Peeta laughs.

“Well, if you have any ideas I’m open to suggestions,” he says.

I think for a moment. “Why haven’t you added your family to the book?” I ask.

It’s been bothering me for weeks, really. He never included them on the list we made before the supplies arrived, never made any attempt to start a page for any of them. At this point, the book is more finished than not. It’ll never really be done, we know we will continue to add things to it for years to come. But by now we’ve at least started an entry and portrait for everyone we could think of. Still Peeta has never brought up adding his family. I know they had their share of issues, but I would think at the very least he’d want to add his father in.

“Complicated and awful, you really nailed that one,” he says with a sad smile.

I wince. “I’m sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it–”

“No, it’s okay. I guess part of it is just that in a weird way I already felt like I got closure with them before the Quell. I had no intention of seeing them again so I said everything I needed to the night before,” he says. “Obviously I never imagined I’d be here and they’d be gone, and of course I still miss them, but in some ways it feels like that wound has already healed somewhat, so why disturb it, you know?”

I nod. “I understand. That’s kind of how I felt working on my father’s page. Not that I got a chance to say goodbye, but it was so long ago that it didn’t feel as fresh. But–not to sound like Dr. Aurelius–but when I actually started working on his page I realized how much of my grief I had repressed with everything else going on.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the other thing,” says Peeta, “We ended on a decent note but I didn’t exactly grow up in a happy home. But now…it almost feels insulting to their memories to bring all that back up.”

“Well it’s up to you, I understand either way. But I just think it would be more of an insult to their memory to not remember them at all. I mean, you turned out pretty great, so it can’t have been all bad,” I say.

He smiles but gives a deep sigh. “No, it wasn’t all bad.”

“Will you tell me about them? Maybe you don’t have to commit to writing it out yet but…I hardly know anything about them and I’d like to,” I say gently.

And so Peeta spends the majority of our remaining hike telling me about his family. His oldest brother, Wheaton, loved a girl who was reaped four years before us, in Annie’s games. Peeta remembers bits and pieces of who he was before that, that he was caring and protective and kind. But after she died he never fully recovered and became distant. 

Graham, his other brother, was the most popular kid in school, to hear Peeta tell it. Not that I ever noticed, but I didn’t notice most people. Graham was witty and charming, and  burned through quite a few girlfriends. But he didn’t treat the girls very well, and his wit often earned him the brunt of their mother’s temper.

Peeta’s mother was every bit as cruel as I always imagined her to be. But, on rare occasions, she could be just as loving as she was cruel, which made it all the more confusing for Peeta growing up. He recalls how surprisingly tender she was one time when he got very sick as a child. After that, he caught glimpses of that version of his mother now and then, but it didn’t stop her from raising a rolling pin or a belt when the boys got out of line, or had the misfortune of just getting in her way on a bad day.

Eventually he understood that his parents had only gotten married because of Wheaton’s arrival. District Twelve has always been very old fashioned in this regard. While it was always common knowledge what teenagers got up to at the slag heap, we all still pretended those activities only happened within the government assigned homes of newlyweds. It was slightly more common for babies to be born before a toasting in the Seam, but it was pretty much unheard of among the merchants. So Peeta’s parents got married as soon as they realized she was pregnant, even though it was after they had realized they didn’t love each other.

While there was never any love between his parents, Peeta emphasizes how much his father loved his boys. He talks by far the longest about his father, telling story after story about his kindness and his love. The first batch of cookies he let Peeta help decorate at age four. The way he always found a spot to hang Peeta’s newest drawing. How he would close the bakery for his sons’ wrestling matches even if it meant losing business.

Peeta has tears rolling down his face by the time he’s done. “I should probably write all this down, shouldn’t I?” he says with a shaky laugh.

“When you’re ready,” I say, squeezing his hand. I’ve been holding it since he started talking about his mother.

When we eventually round the last corner and the lake comes into view, Peeta freezes while I keep walking, our still-entwined hands tugging me backwards a little. I turn to look at him, worried he’s having a flashback or something, but instead find him staring reverently at the surroundings.

I break into a wide smile at the look of awe on his face. “I told you you’d love it.”

He shifts his gaze to me with that same reverent look and I feel a fluttering in my stomach. “So beautiful,” he whispers, only his eyes are still locked on mine and the fluttering increases tenfold.

I lay out the blanket at the trunk of a large willow tree a couple yards back from the edge of the lake. Peeta looks surprised when I start pulling off my boots and socks.

“Are you going to swim?” he asks.

“No, it’s still too cold. I was just going to dip my feet in for a bit.” I roll up my pant legs up past my knees. “Are you joining me or are you going to start sketching?”

“I can do both, can’t I?” he says with a smirk.

I sit down on the edge of the lake and dip my feet in while Peeta changes into a pair of shorts he had the foresight to bring, since the day’s warmed up quite a bit now and he’s always run hotter than me. A moment later he sits down on my right with his sketchbook and pencils. It takes a while for him to get situated comfortably so that his real foot dangles in the water without his artificial leg getting in the water. 

I’m about to ask why he doesn’t just take the leg off when I gasp. 

“Peeta, what happened to your leg?” I cry out. The spot where the metal meets the remainder of his leg is alarmingly red and chafed.

“Oh my god, where’d it go?” Peeta exclaims in fake shock. I smack him in the stomach.

“I’m serious,” I say, lightly running my finger along the marks, “is this from walking today?” I ask, horrified.

“No, Katniss, it's fine. It was already like this. Don’t worry about it,” he says quickly.

It’s his immediate dismissal that makes me skeptical of what he’s not telling me.

“Is there something you should be doing to take care of it that you’re not?” I ask.

He sighs. “It’s… recommended that I take it off to sleep. But it’s fine, really, I just need to to grab the cream for it from my house, it’ll be–”

“Why aren’t you taking it off to sleep then?” I ask. 

Of all the times we shared a bed, I never once saw Peeta take off his leg. I can understand why he didn’t in the Games, obviously, and I can even understand that he might’ve been embarrassed about it (although he needn’t be) during the tour. But why not now, when we’re sleeping in separate rooms?

“It…it’s a lot faster to get to you when you have a nightmare when I leave it on,” he mumbles, more to his hands on his lap than to me.

“ Peeta ,” I groan. “No, you can’t keep doing that.”

“We’ll see,” he mutters.

“Peeta!” I say sharply.

“Look, when I hear you screaming I usually jump out of bed before I’m fully awake. It would be more dangerous if I did that without my leg on, I’d probably end up falling and hitting my head or something,” he reasons. 

“Why don’t you at least take it off now? The cold water might help and you can sit more comfortably,” I suggest.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to risk not being able to get it back on if it swells. I don’t really want to get stuck out here.”

I sigh. “You can’t keep sleeping in it,” I say firmly.

“I’ll get my cream tonight and it’ll be fine, okay? You don’t have to worry about it.”

“We’ll see,” I mutter.

After that, we sit in silence for a while. I rest my head on Peeta’s shoulder and watch as he draws the lake. Eventually I get restless and decide to wade around in the shallow parts a bit. When I see a patch of my namesake plant, I pull one to show to Peeta.

“What’s this?” he asks, turning the plant over in his hands.

“That’s katniss,” I tell him.

“Oh!” says Peeta, holding it up next to my face. “Yes, I see the resemblance now,” he says seriously. I laugh.

“It won’t be in season for a while but I thought you’d want to see it. We can eat it in the fall,” I say.

“Speaking of eating, I’m hungry,” Peeta says, shutting his sketchbook.

“Me, too,” I say as I help pull him to his feet.

Peeta begins slicing up a loaf of bread while I pull out the various meats, cheeses, and fruits we packed. We spread out our little feast on the blanket. It’s a pretty impressive display considering how quickly we packed up. Just when I think I can’t hold another bite, Peeta produces two chocolate chip cookies from a side pocket in his bag.

“Have you been hiding these?” I ask, unable to recall when Peeta baked them.

“My house is still good for something,” he smirks, “Chocolate tends to disappear a lot faster when I keep it at yours.” I scowl at him.

After we eat, Peeta spends a long time staring out at the lake, contemplating something but saying nothing. 

Finally he asks, “Is this where you learned to swim?”

I nod. “My father used to bring me here in the summer. It was like our secret place, more so than the rest of the woods. When he died I didn’t come back here until after the Games. Then I came out here to swim when I had too much time on my hands.”

Peeta gives an odd little smile, then shakes his head. “What?” I ask.

“It’s just…I wouldn’t necessarily consider most of the things that have happened to me the past couple years to be lucky,” he starts. “But all things considered, if I had to go into that arena I think it was pretty lucky for me that I got to go in with the one person in Twelve who was most prepared to survive it.”

I consider this for a moment. “Gale would’ve been more prepared,” I say flatly. “He had all the same skills as me but less of the moral hangups about killing people.”

“Maybe,” Peeta shrugs. “But it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun if I had to do all that kissing with Gale.”

I give him a stunned look, but soon I’m laughing. “Yeah, well, speaking from experience you definitely would’ve gotten the short end of that deal,” I say under my breath.

If I was stunned by Peeta’s comment, it’s nothing compared to the look on his face at mine. His mouth actually hangs open as he realizes what I’ve said. I smirk with pride at the fact that I’ve been able to render Peeta, who always knows the right thing to say, completely speechless.

“I’m a better kisser than Gale, real or not real?” Peeta asks when he’s finally recovered from the shock.

I roll my eyes at him. “Well I can’t say if you’re objectively better, I can only speak from my perspective,” I say evasively.

“That’s the same thing, as far as I’m concerned,” he says.

“Then, fine. Real,” I say. “But don’t get cocky about it.”

Peeta lays down on his back with his hands behind his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, smirking.  “I just wish I could go back in time and tell my fourteen year old self that someday Katniss Everdeen is going to say that he’s a better kisser than Gale Hawthorne.”

“Shut up, I take it back,” I say petulantly. “I’ve never enjoyed kissing anyone. Ever.”

“Sorry, you said ‘real’. That’s a binding contract,” says Peeta.

I scoff as I lay down next to him. “I’m going to push you into that lake when you’re least expecting it.”

We couldn’t have asked for better weather. It’s the perfect temperature, the sky is bright and blue with only a scattering of fluffy clouds. Peeta makes up a game where he sketches the shape of a cloud, and we each decide what animal we think the shape resembles most. Then we take turns adding one thing at a time until we’ve drawn the animal we’re thinking of. Only we can’t tell the other what we’re thinking, so sometimes we’re drawing the same thing, but more often we end up creating bizarre animal hybrids.

We’re both lying side by side on our backs, laughing at the disturbing squirrel-possum combination we’ve created, when a mockingjay lands on the edge of our blanket.

“Friend of yours?” asks Peeta, gesturing his head at the bird.

I smile fondly at it. “When my father and I would come here, he’d sing all day. There’s so many of them out here, it would get loud with them throwing all his songs back and forth.”

“I’m sure it was beautiful,” he says quietly.

I can’t remember a time when I was this at peace. There’s no war, no enemies, just a boy at my side with a kind smile and impossibly long eyelashes. There’s still grief, yes, but somehow it’s made bearable in Peeta’s company. Peeta, who makes me cheese buns and french toast and chocolate chip cookies. Who makes my stomach flip in ways that make me feel like I might actually just be an eighteen-year-old girl. Peeta, who makes me happy when I thought life would never be good again. 

Yes, maybe I could survive without him, but why would I ever want to?

I prop myself up slightly on my elbows, and loud and clear I begin to sing.

“ Down in the valley, valley so low

Late in the evening, hear the train blow…”

When I’ve sung all the way through the first three verses, I glance at Peeta. He’s watching me, mesmerized like he’s once again that little boy hearing the girl with two braids sing for the class. I lay back down, curling into his side, resting my head on my favorite spot on his chest. I’m not sure if this is something friends can do, but I’m not really sure that I care anymore.

“The Valley Song has four verses, real or not real?” Peeta whispers.

“Real,” I whisper back, leaning up so I’m right in his ear. “I just think the last verse will sound better after the mockingjays join in, so we have to wait.” And then I place a light kiss on his cheek, just because I want to, before returning my head to his chest.

When the mockingjays start tossing around the tune like a round, I start to sing the final verse, only this time just quiet enough for Peeta to hear.

“ Roses are red, love, violets are blue

Birds in the heavens, know I love you

Know I love you, oh, know I love you

Birds in the heavens, know I love you”

Peeta’s heart is pounding beneath my ear. I tilt my head up so I can see him, a soft smile dancing across my lips.

“I think I want to freeze this moment, right here, and live in it forever,” I tell him.

“I’ll allow it,” he says, grinning. He smooths back the hair from my forehead and plants a lingering kiss right below my hairline.

And so, I try to freeze the moment, to take in every little detail. The feel of the gentle breeze rustling the willow branches above our heads, and the way Peeta’s lips feel against my skin. The fading sound of the mockingjays singing my song in one ear, and Peeta’s steady heartbeat in the other. I close my eyes and take into account my own pounding heart. The way I can feel so safe and happy and at peace in his arms. As I start drifting towards sleep I find myself certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, of one fact:

I am in love with Peeta Mellark.

Chapter Text

Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?
No, she crept up on me.

The words circle around my head as I start to regain consciousness. Not a nightmare, just a bittersweet memory. I shift my gaze up to see the face of the boy who crept up on me.

I stare at him for a long time while he sleeps soundly beneath me. What happens now? I wonder. I love him, I’m sure of it, but I’ve never been good at this kind of thing. I’ve had plenty of practice at faking it, but I’ve never felt the real thing. Not like this. I could just kiss him. Right now. Kiss him awake and tell him I love him and then…and then what? 

We’d be a couple, I guess. A real couple. The thought brings a smile to my face. I think, once again, of Annie and Finnick. The certainty in which they loved each other, the absolute bliss on their faces when they were together. Peeta and I could have that. Love and certainty and bliss. And then we would be together, for real, until we break up or one of us dies. I don’t know which thought scares me more.

Maybe, for now, I don’t have to decide anything. I said I wouldn’t do anything until I was sure, anyway. And while I’m sure about how I feel, I’m not sure what to do with that feeling yet. So, for now, I’ll wait.

I don’t know how long we were asleep, but the sun is definitely lower in the sky. We didn’t pack enough food for dinner, and I doubt Peeta will want to be in the woods after dark. Regrettably, I know it’s time for us to leave the lake. 

“Peeta,” I sing more than say, lightly rubbing my hand up and down his chest, “ Peeta.” The mockingjays pick up my tone and start echoing it around the trees, making me laugh. “Peeta, wake up,” I sing.

Finally his bleary eyes start to open, and I’m greeted with that special goofy grin I’ve only seen when he first wakes up. Oh, I really love you, I think.

But then his grin shifts to wide-eyed terror. His eyes dart around rapidly.

“We’re in the arena, real or not real?” he pleads.

“Not real,” I say quickly, “We’re in the woods outside of Twelve. You came with me to the lake for my birthday, remember?”

He nods slowly as he remembers the past several hours. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he says in a small voice.

“That’s okay, neither did I. But it’s probably better that we’ve got some more energy for the journey home,” I say kindly.

He shakes his head. “No, I…I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” There’s a desperation in his voice, as if he’s begging me to understand something but I don’t know what.

“It’s okay, Peeta, everything’s okay,” I try to soothe him.

He blinks several times and then seems to come back to himself. “Everything’s okay,” he mutters under his breath.

We pack up the remains of our little picnic.

“In the summer we can stay out here much longer,” I tell him as we turn our backs to the lake.

“I’d like that,” he says with a soft smile. 

I don’t know which of us initiates it, but we walk the whole way back holding hands.

“Tell me about the best birthday you ever had,” I request as we walk.

“Even if you were there?” he asks. I frown. I don’t know when Peeta’s birthday is, I was kind of hoping I could start to narrow it down if he told me a story.

“Especially if I was there. Now I need to know which day I should feel terrible about for not knowing it was your birthday.”

Peeta laughs. “My birthday is July 9th,” he tells me.

With horror I realize that meant Peeta had not one but two birthdays as a tribute. If the Games had continued normally, he would’ve had to spend every birthday for the rest of his life as a mentor. I count forward from reaping day, trying to list the events of each day. Reaping, chariots, three days of training…

“The roof,” I whisper, realizing instantly what Peeta’s best birthday was.

He nods. “Unfortunate circumstances, but all things considered it was a pretty nice birthday.”

“You should’ve told me, we could’ve ordered a cake or something,” I say sadly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he shrugs, “it was as great of a day as it could have been, even without cake.”

“Well we’ll have to find some way to outdo it this year,” I decide.

“Really, we could just do all the same things without the threat of imminent death hanging over our heads?” he suggests.

“Yes,” I agree, “The same things without death. And with cake.”

We spend most of the walk home in comfortable silence. Occasionally one of us will point out a familiar plant or I’ll hum a tune. It’s comforting to have this, to know that we can spend all our time together and still not get sick of the other when we run out of things to say.

We’re close to the edge of the forest when Peeta says something unexpected.

“I’m thinking about rebuilding the bakery,” he blurts out.

“Really?” I ask, surprised.

“Thom asked me the other day about it. They’re getting ready to start planning out businesses and I said I’d think about it. I mean…what do you think?” he says.

“It’s not up to me,” I say neutrally.

“But you’re my best friend and I value your opinion,” he says.

“I think…” I think I’d miss having him around all the time, but that’s selfish. “If you’re just thinking about it out of some sense of obligation to your family or the district then you shouldn’t do it. But if it’s something you really want, I think you’ll do a great job,” I say.

“Thanks. I’ll keep thinking about it, I guess,” he says, smiling.

A memory tugs at my mind, a passing moment I thought nothing of at the time. 

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” I realize. “That sketch of the bakery, on the day I couldn’t get out of bed. You were imagining a new bakery, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was,” he admits.

“You should tell Thom yes,” I say.

“You really think so?” he asks, searching my face.

“Definitely,” I say firmly. 

When we get back to Victor’s Village, I’m surprised to see people exiting my house. I relax when I realize it’s just Sae and May Belle. The little girl takes off in a sprint towards us, and my heart melts just a little when Peeta releases my hand to lift her up into his arms.

“May Belle, did you know today is Katniss’s birthday?” Peeta asks.

She nods excitedly. “Stew!” she says, pointing to my house.

I smile brightly at her. “Did you make me stew for my birthday?”

She giggles and shakes her head no, pointing over to Sae. 

We catch up with Sae in front of the house. “I got the recipe for that lamb stew you like from the colorful Capitol lady,” she says. I think she means Effie. “I had to make some substitutions but I reckon it’s close enough.”

I pull her into a hug. “Thank you, for everything,” I say in her ear. “And thank you for your help, Miss May Belle,” I add as I give her a light kiss on her forehead. She beams at me, but then leans her head up toward Peeta as if expecting him to do the same, and I can barely contain my laugh as Sae and I exchange a look. Peeta obliges before setting her down next to Sae.

“Come on, dear, let’s leave them to the rest of their night,” Sae says, chuckling. “Happy Birthday, Katniss.”

When I move toward the porch stairs Peeta hesitates. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing, I just…I had something I was going to work on,” he says vaguely, “At my house. I mean, before I knew we’d be gone all day…”

I frown at him, confused. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“It’s not your birthday tomorrow,” he says. 

Oh, I bet he’s making me a cake.

“I see,” I give him a knowing smile. “Well, come take some stew back to your place, then,” I offer.

I pour a generous amount of stew into a bowl for Peeta to take with him. He sighs.

“Would you rather I stay here for dinner?” he asks. Yes, always, I think. But that’s not fair to him. Plus, I really want cake.

I shrug him off. “It’s fine, Peeta. You just spent the whole day with me.”

“But I don’t want you to eat alone on your birthday,” he says guiltily. 

“I’ll make Haymitch eat with me. It’ll be good for him to get out of the house,” I say. “How long will you need?”

Peeta glances at the clock, “A couple hours? I started it this morning before you woke up…”

“Perfect,” I say, going up on my toes and kissing him on the cheek. Peeta gives me a funny little smile as his hand reflexively goes up to touch the spot where I kissed him.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

And then I’m alone. I head up to the shower to avoid looking at my quiet, empty house. I can’t help but recall my last birthday a little sadly. It had been right after the Quarter Quell was announced, and we had begun our intense training. Still, my mother and Prim had been determined to make it a special day. They had decorated the kitchen and living room with bright colored streamers and invited the Hawthornes over for dinner. They must’ve all known I wasn’t planning to come out of that arena alive, because even Gale showed up after a twelve hour shift in the mines and they all stayed until late into the night. Haymitch and Peeta were invited after training as well, although Peeta politely declined, citing the need to watch the tape from the 57th Games again. I remember being especially annoyed with him about that. 

I stand under the hot water for a while, trying to remember that day for what it was and not the sadness it’s tinged with now. I think about Prim carefully braiding my hair and forcing me to pick out my favorite dress to wear. I remember twirling around the living room with Prim and Posy, allowing myself to feel carefree for one evening. And I smile at the memory of Peeta showing up after dinner with a plate of chocolate cupcakes. They weren’t nearly as intricate as the cakes I’d grown up looking at through the bakery windows, but they were carefully topped with green frosting, and delicious nonetheless.

I towel off and choose clothes from my dresser. I pick something comfortable, there will be no need for a pretty dress tonight. Prim is gone, my mother and the Hawthornes are off in other districts, and Gale is currently dead to me. But still, after dinner there will be a boy with a delicious cake. So maybe it’s not all bad.

I decide to call my mother before I make Haymitch eat with me. I tell myself that she would have called on her own, maybe she even did call while I was out today. I’m not sure if that’s true, but she’s the only mother I’ve got and I should talk to her on my birthday.

“Hello, this is Asterid Everdeen speaking,” she answers.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Oh Katniss! I’m so glad you called. Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Did you do anything special today?” she asks.

I recount breakfast and the trip to the lake and the lamb stew. I leave out the part about being in love with Peeta as it hardly feels relevant.

“Well, it sounds like you and Peeta had a lovely day,” she says in a knowing tone.

“Yeah, we did,” I say with a little smile. “He went back to his house for a bit, probably making an incredible cake.”

“Yes, I’m sure he is.” She sounds run down. I wonder if she’s just working herself too hard at the hospital, or if there’s something going on.

“How was your day?” I ask, trying to find my answer.

“Oh, it’s been a pretty difficult day here,” she sighs, “Nothing you need to worry about though. I’ll tell you about it another time. Tonight you enjoy your stew and your cake and your boy.”

I’m glad no one can see the blush on my face from her calling Peeta my boy . “Thanks, Mom. I’ll talk to you on Saturday still?”

“Yes, I’ll call normal time. Happy birthday, Katniss. I love you and I’m very–” her voice cracks,

“I’m very proud of the wonderful, strong young woman you’ve become. Especially after everything this past year.”

So far I’ve made it through the day without crying, I’m not about to start now. “I love you, too. Bye, Mom,” is all I can manage to say without breaking that resolve.

I ladle out two mugs of stew to bring to Haymitch’s house, where at least I know there will be no danger of tears. As I cross the lawn I notice the soft glow of the sunset behind my house.

“Haymitch!” I call into the house. I’m surprised to see him come to the door almost immediately. Not quite sober but awake and fairly alert.

“What d’you want?” he mumbles. I thrust his mug at him.

“Come on, it’s my birthday and I want to eat stew and watch the sunset,” I say. He follows me wordlessly out onto the porch where we sit on the steps.

“Where’s the boy? He lives for this kind of crap,” Haymitch grumbles.

“He’s working on some top secret birthday project,” I say.

“Probably just a cake,” he says.

“Yeah, probably,” I say with a faint smile.

It’s a truly magnificent sunset. I hope Peeta gets a chance to see this one through his windows while he frosts.

“So where’d the two of you disappear to today?” Haymitch asks. I raise an eyebrow at him. “It’s my job to keep an eye on you. Believe it or not I do have a general sense of your whereabouts most of the time.”

“Then you know where we went,” I say impishly.

“You’re in a good mood.” It’s not a question, it’s an observation. 

“It’s my birthday,” I shrug.

“Ah yes, that reminds me…” he briefly enters the house, coming back out with several boxes.

“Gifts from your adoring fans,” he says, as if it’s an explanation. When I continue to stare at him, bewildered, he elaborates. “Your friends had your birthday presents sent to me so you wouldn’t open them early.”

I’m still not sure what friends I have who would send me presents, but I take the stack from him gratefully. We go back to eating our stew quietly. When the stew’s gone and the sun has almost completely set I collect the mugs, precariously perched atop my stack of boxes, and thank him for joining me.

Haymitch clears his throat as he stands, but I cut him off.

“Don’t you dare go all soft on me now, Abernathy,” I warn him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sweetheart. Try to save some of that cake for Sunday,” he says.

“Not a chance,” I say flatly.

Back in the house, still with about half an hour until Peeta comes back, I decide to open my presents. I’m genuinely shocked by all the people who have thought about me. Effie sends a bottle of her favorite wine, with instructions that I’m to save it for a special occasion and under no circumstances should I share it with Haymitch. Flavius, Venia, and Octavia sent a prep team in a box that makes me laugh. Annie sent a pretty yellow dress covered in little flowers. In the box from Annie there’s also a tiny fabric pouch with a note attached.

Noticed this wasn’t in your drawer when I packed up your shit. Did some poking around, finally tracked it down. Figured you’d want it back. -Jo

The last person I expected to finally make me cry today was Johanna Mason. But as I feel around the pouch and pull out my perfect little pearl, I can’t help the choked sob that comes out of me.

It’s not just the pearl or the gifts or any of it, really. I’ve been so caught up in my own little word of grief, so focused on the people I lost that I’ve neglected the people who are still here. People who care about me and know me well enough to send such thoughtful gifts. I vow to call them all next week. To thank them, yes, but also just to talk to them and see how they’re doing. 

I put my gifts in the small first floor bedroom. I’ll find better homes for them later, but for tonight they’re safely tucked away from Buttercup’s curiosity. I keep the pearl in the pouch, though, and quickly stash it upstairs in my bedside table drawer. Safe and sound and home where it belongs.

Peeta arrives with a soft knock at the door, which makes me laugh because we never knock at each others’ homes. But when I open the door I see that both his hands are carefully securing the cake box in his hand.

“What ever could that be?” I feign cluelessness.

He rolls his eyes. “I had to redeem myself from those stupid cupcakes I made you last year.”
“Those cupcakes were great,” I protest, leading him into the kitchen, “And you had a lot on your mind.”

He removes the top of the cake box and it takes my breath away. Redeem himself, he certainly has. I recognize it as one of the cakes from his daydream sketchbook, the one covered in wildflowers that he said he’d make for me. Only now he has predominantly used katniss flowers and dandelions and lined the edges with forest green piping. 

“It’s beautiful, Peeta,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

Peeta finds a large knife suitable for cutting into the cake. “This is why I liked selling the cakes,” he sighs, “I’ve never had to cut up my own work.”

“Wait!” I cry out suddenly before he can make the first slice. “Wait, I have to make a wish!”

Peeta bursts out laughing, setting the knife down on the counter. “I didn’t think you cared about that sort of thing.”

“I don’t really,” I admit, “but Prim did, so I think I ought to.” I start rummaging through a cabinet and find the large candles we kept with emergency supplies for if the power went out. Good enough. “Plus my wish from last year came true, so better safe than sorry,” I add.

Peeta holds the candle while I light it. I look into his smiling blue eyes, then close my own and make a wish that’s just for me. Only after I’ve blown out the candle do I allow Peeta to slice into the cake.

We sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch while we eat our dessert. The cake is amazing, of course. It’s a decadent chocolate cake with an even richer chocolate filling and creamy frosting. It’s better than any of the spectacular desserts we ever had in the Capitol, even if Peeta tries to deny it when I tell him so.

“So, what did you wish for?” Peeta asks.

“I can’t tell you or it won’t come true,” I say stubbornly.

“No, I mean last year. You said it already came true, so I think it’s safe to say it now. If you want to, that is,” he adds.

Once again, I think back on last year. I remember looking around the small crowd of people who loved me. My heart swelled as they sang the traditional birthday song, even if several of them were off-key. For one moment, I selfishly forgot the deal I had made with Haymitch and imagined what it could be like to win the Games again, to come back home and get to continue my life with all these people who loved me.

Not all of them , said a small voice in my mind. My eyes met Peeta’s at the back of the group. He wasn’t singing, just smiling tenderly at me. He had stayed for the rest of the party. Needless to say, he had no intention of actually rewatching any Games that night, he just needed an excuse to buy him some time. I noticed the way he hung back from everyone, like he was trying to blend in with the wall and make us forget he was there. It was like he was hoping that when I looked back on this memory for years to come, it wouldn’t be tainted with the sadness of the death he was planning to die in the arena. 

But still, I noticed him the whole night. Like always, I kept track of the boy with the bread. And my eyes sought his when the song ended and Prim insisted that I make a wish.

“I wished for you,” I tell him in a small voice. “I wished that you would still be alive on my next birthday.” I don’t mention the part where I wasn’t planning to be alive with him on my next birthday, because he already knows it.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “What a waste of a wish,” he mutters.

“Well seeing as you’re the only one still here, I’d call it a wish well spent,” I say.

He gives me a sad smile. “Still, I hope you were wiser about your wish-making this year,” he says.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” I say with a smirk.

I lean my head on his shoulder until I feel my eyelids starting to droop and his lips against my forehead. 

“We should get you up to bed,” he says softly.

“What are we going to do about that leg of yours?” I ask, yawning.

He sighs. “Well until the doctors figure out how to regrow limbs we’re stuck with the same old options.”

I revisit our stalemate from earlier. “You know, there is one way for you to take off your leg without needing to worry about cracking your head open when I have a nightmare,” I say carefully.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” he asks.

“You could sleep in my bed,” I say.

He stares at me for a long time. “I shouldn’t,” he finally says.

“Why not? I ask.

“I don’t want to take up space in your bed just because I can’t get my leg in order,” he says ruefully.

“It’s not taking up space if I want you there. I’ve always…” I hesitate. “I’ve always slept better next to you.”

Peeta seems to be waging an internal war with himself, but finally he sighs and says, “Okay,” and the next thing I know we’re heading up to bed together.

We still go to our separate rooms and respective bathrooms to get ready for bed, since all of Peeta’s things are in my mother’s room. I quickly change into pajamas and brush my teeth, smiling to myself as I replay the day in my head. It was definitely a very good day.

When I come out of the bathroom I find that Peeta’s already there, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed.

“Are you sure you want me here?” he asks.

“Yes, Peeta, I’m sure,” I say, crossing to the window and opening it a few inches before climbing into bed next to him. 

I watch as he carefully removes the lower half of his left leg and props it against the side of the bed. He gives a little sigh of relief as he dabs some cream onto the red parts. Then he settles himself under the covers. Almost automatically, I scoot closer so I can lay my head on his chest. His fingers brush gently up and down my back.

“Was it a good birthday?” he asks.

“The best,” I say sleepily.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” he says gently.

“Good night, Peeta,” I say.

I fall asleep immediately in the arms of the boy I love. Safe and sound and home where he belongs.

Chapter Text

I wake up in the middle of the night but for once, it wasn’t from a nightmare. Maybe Peeta shifted or Buttercup jumped off the bed. I’m still laying on Peeta’s chest the way I fell asleep, and I tilt my head up to look at him. I’m surprised when I’m met with his eyes, wide and staring rather than fast asleep.

“Hi,” I whisper, puzzled.

“Hey,” he whispers back.

I glance at the clock on Peeta’s side table. It’s 1:30 in the morning. “Why are you awake?” I ask.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he shrugs. Peeta’s a good actor, but I know him too well to fall for it. I can tell something’s bothering him, no matter how hard he’s trying to conceal it.

“Peeta,” I say softly, “what’s going on?” I feel his shoulders slump a little as he realizes he’s been caught.

“I’m so scared I’ll hurt you, Katniss,” he says, dejected. 

I frown at this. “You haven’t tried to hurt me in a long time. I thought that was…over.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he clarifies, “I haven’t felt like that in a while. But sometimes when I wake up I’m just so confused. You saw me at the lake today, I thought we were really in the arena. And I’m scared that if I…what if I wake up in mutt mode and you’re asleep and vulnerable?” He takes a shaky inhale. “Katniss, I couldn’t live with myself if something…if I…” His voice cracks as he fails to finish the sentence.

It explains why he’s been sleeping in my mother’s room. I understand, I don’t know what I would do if the circumstances were reversed. But at the same time, I have a hard time believing Peeta would really hurt me. Not anymore.

“Have you ever woken up feeling like that when I’m not there?” I ask.

“No, not that I’m aware of,” he says, frowning.

“And you haven’t felt like hurting me during or after a flashback?” I continue.

“I guess not,” he says slowly.

“I think we’re fine, then,” I conclude, “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I’m just so scared,” he whispers.

We could go around in circles like this for ages, and truthfully I don’t think anything will get solved tonight. I know I don’t want him to leave my bed, though, and that we’ll need to find a way to get past this eventually.

Abruptly, I push myself up from his chest, moving instead to sit with my back against the headboard. Peeta looks somehow both disappointed and relieved. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly, “I’m taking the next watch.”

He looks at me in disbelief. “You’re…what?”

“I’m taking the next watch,” I repeat. “I want you to be comfortable sleeping here, and you said you don’t want to sleep while I’m vulnerable. So I’ll stay awake, and that way if you wake up in ‘mutt mode’–which I doubt you will–I’ll be prepared.”

Peeta shakes his head. “I can’t ask you to do that,” he says feebly.

“You’re not asking, and I’m doing it, so shut up and go to sleep,” I say.

“You’re really quite stubborn, you know that?” he says with a chuckle.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Coming from the one who just kept himself awake for four hours?

“Fine,” he concedes, “We’re both stubborn and we’re both going to be very tired tomorrow.” 

He rolls over onto his side so he’s facing me but not touching me. I scoot closer to him and wrap an arm around him so I can play with his hair. He pulls himself even closer to me, so that his head is on my stomach.

“If I’m not up by five, wake me up,” he mumbles into me.

“We’ll see,” I tell him as I wrap one of his curls around my finger.

Peeta falls asleep quickly, but I keep running my fingers through his hair for a long time after his breathing has evened out. It feels a lot like those times we shared a sleeping bag in the first arena, only there’s no cameras and we’re really in love.

In love. I’m surprised by how well I’ve taken my realization from this afternoon. I would’ve thought that I’d be more panicked about falling in love considering how much of my life I spent avoiding this kind of stuff. Maybe it’s because it was a long time coming, or maybe it’s just because it’s Peeta. I still don’t really know what comes next, but I know I’d rather spend every night wide awake with him in my arms than spend a night alone in this bed ever again.

It’s hard staying awake, though. Unlike those nights in the cave, I don’t have the adrenaline of waiting to be attacked keeping me awake. No matter what Peeta thinks, I’m confident he won’t hurt me. Still, I don’t want to break his trust, so I do everything I can to keep myself awake. I make a lot of lists in my head. People I need to call this week, plants I’d like to start growing in the backyard, questions I’ve been meaning to ask my mother about basic healing remedies. I mentally reorganize my dresser drawers to make room for Peeta’s things and try to decide the best room to officially convert into a painting studio. I land on the study, since the room doesn’t get much use and it’s the one I’d most like to see completely redone. Overall it’s a pretty productive night, if only just in my mind.

The night passes rather uneventfully outside of my own thoughts. Peeta moves every now and then, but stays sound asleep. By the time the sun is starting to rise outside the window, Peeta has shifted so much that he’s half on top of me. I don’t mind the weight, though. 

When I feel his body start to tense up, I prepare myself to flee if necessary, even if I don’t expect to need to. Even if Peeta were to attack, I’ve got the upper hand in alertness and having both my legs. I watch him as his eyes fly open. They’re wild and frantic, but still undeniably his and not the awful clouded look they had when he was hijacked . He blinks at me a few times then relaxes. 

“Nightmare?” I ask. He nods.

“I’m okay now,” he says, nestling further into my embrace. But only for a moment, after that it’s like he comes to his senses and rolls back onto his side of the bed. I immediately miss the contact.

“You can sleep more if you want,” I say.

“No, it’s okay. This is when I usually get up to start baking anyway,” he says as he starts sitting up and stretching. Then he leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for staying awake for me.”

“Anytime,” I say with a little smile.

I burrow back down into the blankets, and I’m already half asleep when Peeta starts cursing under his breath. I crack half an eye open. “What’s going on?” I mumble sleepily. Peeta says nothing. I force both my eyes open to see him hunched over on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

I quickly move to hold him, start to whisper all the things I say during a flashback. But when I get closer I realize that, no, this is not a flashback. Peeta seems to be completely aware of his surroundings, but he’s crying hard.

“Hey,” I whisper, “Hey, what’s wrong?” I run my hand up and down his back until he’s ready to talk.

“This is so stupid ,” he says finally.

“I bet it’s not,” I say.

“My leg’s swollen. I can’t get my prosthetic on,” he tells me. “In the Capitol sometimes they’d take away my prosthetic, just to mess with me I think. Sometimes it was hours and sometimes it was days.” He sighs. “It made me feel so…helpless, on top of everything else. But I didn’t expect to feel this anxious about it now.”

The weight of this confession hangs heavy in the air. Everytime I learn something new about what they did to him I get more and more angry. I try to push it down, though. Anger isn’t going to solve anything now.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’ll be fine, hopefully it’ll go back to normal by tomorrow. My mobility’s going to be pretty limited today without my leg or my crutches but I’ll manage.”

“Peeta, if you have crutches why don’t I just go get them?” I ask, grateful for something I can do. “Where are they?”

Peeta tells me where to find his crutches, and I end up bringing the phone up to him so I can call him from his house and make sure I have everything he needs.

It’s early dawn as I make my way across the lawn in my pajamas and my hunting boots. I still come over here to watch Peeta paint some afternoons, but beyond that this house has become mostly abandoned since Peeta started sleeping at mine. 

His phone is in the kitchen like mine, so I grab it on my way to his room. His sketchbook and pencils are also sitting out on the counter from where he unpacked them yesterday, so I throw those into my bag.

Once I’m in Peeta’s room and I’ve located the crutches propped against the wall, I dial my own phone number.

“Hello,” Peeta answers immediately.

“I’ve got your crutches, sketchbook, and pencils. What else can I get?” I ask.

“In my bedside drawer there should be a compression sleeve, it looks like a giant sock. That should help with the swelling,” he says.

“Got it,” I say, pulling open his drawer. “What else?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember what else is in there,” he admits.

I shuffle around the contents of the drawer a little, taking stock. “There’s some kind of salve in here,” I start. “It looks like one of my mother’s remedies.”

“Oh, yes, bring that please,” he requests. “Anything else that looks useful?”

“Burn cream but I’ve got that too…There’s a ton of these little…foil squares? Do you need those?”

Peeta makes a noise somewhere between laughing and choking. “I don’t know, Katniss, you tell me,” he says under his breath.

“I don’t even know what these are, Peeta,” I snap at him. I’m running on very little sleep and I’m starting to feel the effects of it now. “Do you need them or not?”

“No, no need,” he says quickly, although there’s still a hint of amusement in his voice that annoys me. I shove a few of them into the bag anyway just because he’s being so evasive.

“Can you think of anything else you need? Clothes or anything?” I ask.

“Not at the moment, come on back,” he says.

“I’ll be right there.” 

After I hang up, I impulsively decide to take the sunset painting from his room as well. It’s a lot to haul back over to my house, but I manage awkwardly. When I pull open the front door, I’m startled to find someone standing there, poised to knock.

“Thom! You scared me,” I say.

“Sorry, Katniss. I was just looking for Peeta, figured he’d be up and baking already,” Thom explains.

“Oh well he’s…” I hesitate, but really there’s no easy way to explain why I’m leaving his house in my pajamas with a bunch of his stuff while he’s trapped in my bed with a swollen half-limb. Oh well, I’m pretty sure half the country still believes we’re married anyway. “He’s still in bed, I was just doing him a favor,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the various contents in my arms.

“It looks like you’re robbing him,” Thom observes.

“Well, I’m not,” I say flatly. “Anything I can help you with, or do you need Peeta?”

“I just wanted to bring him this,” he says, pointing at a medium sized metal box near his feet that I hadn’t noticed until now. “Found it under the rubble of the bakery, seemed like something he’d want.”

I can’t imagine why Peeta would want this dented up hunk of metal, but still I have Thom deposit it in the living room back at my place for Peeta to inspect later.

When I reach the bedroom I unceremoniously dump the contents of my bag out on the bed for Peeta and make sure his crutches are within easy reach. He gives me a confused grin when he sees the painting.

“Why’d you bring that?” he asks.

“It was just collecting dust in your room,” I say as I prop it on top of the dresser like it was at his house. “I really like this one,” I add, stepping back to admire it. 

I settle back under the covers as Peeta sorts through the things I’ve brought. He narrows his eyes at me when he picks up the foil packets. I shrug.

“You were being weird about those so I brought some anyway,” I say. “Whatever they are, you had so many of them I figured you must need them at some point.”

He chuckles a little, “Or, I have so many because I’ve never needed them.” But then he puts them in the drawer beside him anyway. There’s an unmistakable blush on his face I don’t know what to make of. 

“Are you feeling better?” I ask after he’s gone through everything.

“Definitely, thank you for taking care of me,” he says sincerely.

“That’s what you and I do,” I say.

Warm and nestled under the covers again I feel my eyelids growing heavy.

“Peeta, I need to go back to sleep,” I admit. “If you want to stay awake or go back to your room I understand but…if you want to sleep here I trust you.”

“But what if I–” he starts

“You won’t!” I cry out, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “I’ve been thinking about it. When we were down in those sewers there were actual mutts that you were programmed to attack me with, and you still told me to run.”

“That’s…true,” he says slowly, and I can tell this is the first argument I’ve made that’s really getting through to him.

“And you’re so much better now, Peeta. I really think it’ll be okay,” I say.

He nods. “Go to sleep, Katniss. I’ll figure out what I’m going to do soon.”

With that, I lay down facing away from him but close enough that I can still feel him against my back. As I burrow under the blankets, I think of one final thing to add.

“The first time you held me, in the cave, I remember thinking that no one had made me feel that safe since my father died.” It’s a lot easier to admit with my back to him, and I’m grateful that he can’t see how red my face has gotten. “You make me feel safe, Peeta. Nothing will ever change that.” 

Peeta says nothing, and I don’t dare turn around to try and figure out what he’s thinking. I’ve accepted defeat and started drifting towards sleep when I feel his weight shift on the bed. I think he’s leaving, but then I feel his arm gently snake its way under my pillow and realize he’s laying down behind me. He drapes his other arm protectively over my waist, and before long we both fall asleep.

When I wake up I can tell by the light outside the window it’s at least noon. Good, we both needed the extra sleep. I listen to Peeta’s breathing behind me and judge him to still be sleeping. His face is buried in my shoulder, and his grip around me now is firm but not restricting. I would be perfectly content to just lay like this all day, but after a few minutes I feel him start to stir. 

“We slept late,” he murmurs into my shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Past noon, I think,” I say, lightly running my nails along the arm wrapped around me.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever slept this late in my life,” he says.

“Never?” I ask in disbelief.

“Never, I grew up on baker’s hours, remember?”

“Hm,” I hum softly, “maybe when you reopen the bakery you can change the hours so we can sleep in more.”

I feel him smile as he presses his lips against my temple. “Yeah, maybe.”

Eventually we both decide we can’t put off eating any longer so we have to get out of bed. It takes a while for Peeta to get his leg situated. Still too swollen for the prosthetic, he applies a generous layer of salve to his stump then slips on the compression sleeve. He’s slow moving on the crutches, having much less practice with them than the prosthetic, but he gets around well enough. 

“When did you get the crutches?” I ask as we move towards the stairs.

“They pretty much came with the leg. Why?” he responds.

The corners of my mouth twitch. “Just seems like you could’ve lent those to me when I broke my ankle instead of carrying me everywhere,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Huh,” he says with a smirk, “I guess I could’ve.”

When we pass through the living room to get to the kitchen he freezes.

“Where did that come from?” he asks, staring at the metal box.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot. Thom brought it by this morning, said he found it under the rubble at the bakery,” I tell him.

He lowers himself onto the couch, food apparently forgotten, still staring in disbelief. 

“What is it?” I ask, sitting next to him.

He turns the box so I can see now that one side has a door with a four-digit combination lock. 

“It’s a safe, I got it for my dad after we got home from the Games.” he explains. “He was always so sentimental and I thought…I thought it would be nice for him to have somewhere to keep important things that was just his.”

Somewhere the witch couldn’t touch is left unsaid.

Peeta laughs in disbelief. “It was meant to be fireproof, at least I know I got my money’s worth,” he says darkly.

“Do you know the combination?” I ask.

“No,” he sighs, “but maybe I can figure it out.”

He starts fiddling with the number dials, first making sure they still work and then trying out different combinations of numbers. I go to the kitchen and start heating up the remaining stew from last night, bringing in a few cheese buns to tide us over for now. I eat my bun and rest my chin on Peeta’s shoulder as I watch him try to work out how to get the safe open.

It’s only when I’ve gotten back up and started dishing out two bowls of stew when I hear Peeta whisper, “I got it.” I’m surprised that then he gets up and hobbles over to the kitchen. 

“What’s in it?” I ask.

“I didn’t look yet, I wanted to wait to look through it with you and figured you’d want to eat first,” he says. “I just really needed to know that it could open.”

“What was the number?” I ask, curious.

“It was my birthday,” he says with a sad smile.

When we’re done eating, we make our way back to the couch. I squeeze Peeta’s hand encouragingly as he opens the door. The first thing he pulls out is a stack of papers. He frowns slightly as he shuffles through them, but then gives a little shrug.

“They’re all documents about the bakery. Proof of ownership and receipts and such,” he says. I think he’s a little disappointed that it’s not something more meaningful but he tries to hide it.

“Those could be helpful for starting up the bakery again,” I remind him.

“Yeah,” he says, brightening up, “you’re right.”

He hands the stack to me to set to the side, but something catches my eye as I flip through them quickly. I turn the stack over and reveal what Peeta missed on his look through the papers.

“Oh Peeta, look…” I whisper. The documents, it turns out, were just scrap papers that little Peeta used to draw his pictures. In the corner of each drawing Peeta’s father wrote Peeta’s age, and a note about what Peeta described the picture as.

Peeta shakes his head as he looks through them. “I can’t believe he kept all of these,” he mutters. 

“He loved you a lot,” I say softly. “And he must’ve had faith that your skill would improve someday,” I add as I laugh at a collection of scribbles from when Peeta was three.

One picture draws me up short. It’s still pretty abstract, but even before reading the description I know what it is. It’s a simple picture of a boy with wild yellow curls on his head, and a girl in a red triangle of a dress with dark wavy lines on either side of her head. I glance at the writing in the corner that confirms my suspicions. Peeta, age 5, “me and the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen” .

“Well look at that, I guess you were telling the truth,” I joke as I show him the drawing.

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t remember your hair being that squiggly, though,” he says.

“Do you think we should put this one on the fridge or on the mantle?” I ask. He laughs as he snatches the stack of drawings from my hand.

“I think we should just put it back in the safe for now,” he says.

He reaches into the safe and pulls out an envelope next. In it are several photographs. His parents on their wedding day, one picture of each boy as a newborn, and a scattering of other moments in their lives.

“Did you own a camera?” I ask, impressed. Very few people had cameras in District Twelve growing up, they were a luxury almost no one could afford. 

“No, but my dad had some friend who did. I don’t remember who,” Peeta muses. “I remember he borrowed it on special occasions.”

Peeta smiles at the next photo in the pile. It’s the five of them standing in front of the bakery. Peeta looks to be a year old at most, held in his mother’s arms. Even that small, his bright blue eyes and wispy blonde curls are unmistakable.

“This was the day my dad officially took over the bakery,” he says. “He used to have it hanging in his office, I’m glad he put it in here though.”

We look through the other pictures: Wheaton and his girlfriend at the harvest festival, Graham with his first place wrestling trophy (Peeta scoffs at this one, knowing he was the runner-up). When I see the photo of five-year old-Peeta, presumably on his way to his first day of school, I melt.

“You were so cute, ” I giggle, pulling the photo from Peeta’s hands. His curls are wild and his backpack is half the size of him. He’s missing one of his two front teeth, which is prominently displayed in his giant grin. 

“‘Were’? Am I not cute now?” he says indignantly.

I roll my eyes at him. “You’re adorable,” I say flatly. “But if this little boy had actually worked up the nerve to talk to me I might’ve been in trouble.”

“Well I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t. I’d hate to cause you any trouble,” he says with a smirk.

Finally, Peeta pulls the last thing out of the safe. It’s an old bound up book, not dissimilar to our memory book.

“Oh, I forgot about this,” he says quietly.

“What is it?” I ask.

“This is the Mellark recipe book. It’s kind of like your family plant book, but every member of the family has a recipe,” he explains.

“What’s yours?” I say.

“Well I’m not in here yet, there’s rules to it. The family chooses a recipe on your behalf when you die. Something you made a lot or that encompasses your life in some way if possible.”

We flip through it in silence for a few minutes. It starts off so far back in Peeta’s family tree that he doesn’t know anything about them apart from their recipes. When we get closer to recent history he begins adding in little facts about people. His uncle who burned both his eyebrows off in a stove mishap. His cousin who passed down his first set of colored pencils. The last entry before the blank pages is a cookie recipe on behalf of his father, which causes me to frown, but Peeta explains before I even have to ask.

“You also get to add a recipe for yourself when you take over the bakery,” he says.

“You’ll get to decide what to add when you reopen, then,” I say.

He sighs. “I want to do theirs first. And there’s the small matter of actually rebuilding a bakery from the ground up.” 

“Any ideas what you’ll do for each of them?” I ask.

“Maybe the squirrel stew for my father…” he ponders. He chuckles darkly. “Would it be awful if I made my mother’s recipe that bread I burnt for you?”

I snort a little. “Well it’s certainly my most memorable interaction with her, but as the last remaining Mellark I think you have the final say.” 

“I’ll have to think on it, I guess,” he says sadly. 

Peeta carefully places the contents back in the safe, and I put it in the spare bedroom with my birthday presents until we can decide the best place for them. 

In the evening Peeta removes the sleeve from his leg and finds that the swelling has gone down immensely. He decides to leave the prosthetic off for the rest of the night, still. When we head up to bed for the night, Peeta climbs into my bed without hesitation.

Chapter Text

I’m sitting at the counter on the phone with my mother while Peeta cooks dinner. My mother has just finished talking about her shift in the maternity ward when she abruptly asks, “Katniss, I’m sorry this is an uncomfortable question, but do you and Peeta use protection?”

I frown. “I mean, I have my bow, but unless–” My mother gives a soft laugh.

“Katniss, I’m asking what method of birth control you’re using.”

“Mom!” I exclaim. “We’re not…I’m not…” I sputter.

“You’re not using birth control or you’re not having sex?” she asks calmly.

“The second one,” I mutter, mortified.

This seems to surprise her. “Oh, alright. Well, do you have protection available for when you need it?”

“What makes you think I’ll need it?” I ask.

“Doesn’t Peeta live in your house?” she responds.

“Well yeah but that doesn’t…how do you know that?” I try to recall ever telling her this fact, or even alluding to it.

“I just assumed, since you seem to spend all your time with him,” she says. “It doesn’t make sense for the two of you to each be alone in those big houses.”

My anger is starting to rise now. “Haymitch is alone in his house, too. Would you like to accuse me of sleeping with him?” I ask bitterly. Peeta whips around, startled. I just bury my face in my free hand so I don’t have to look at him.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” my mother says gently, “It’s perfectly normal to have those kinds of feelings, I just want to–”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I interrupt her.

“No. I’m sorry, but I need to make sure you’re protected,” she continues. “Neither of you are ready to become parents. And as your mother I do think I have some right to–”

“No, you don’t.” I say firmly.

She gave up those rights when she abandoned me. She left me here, depressed and alone, and now she has no right to lecture me on how unfit I am to be a parent. As if it hasn’t been one of my greatest fears for almost half of my life. 

“Katniss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I know that I’m not there, and you’re an adult and you can make your own decisions,” she says. “But as your mother I want to be sure you’re being responsible about those decisions as well. Do you have protection for if you need it?”

“No,” I admit reluctantly.

“Alright, then I’m going to send you some options on the next train. That way you can decide what works best for you without us having to discuss it further,” she says.

“Fine,” I concede. Still angry, but eager to say whatever it takes to end this conversation.

We’re both quiet for a minute, both clearly frustrated with the other. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?” I finally ask, voice dripping in sarcasm.

She gives a heavy sigh. “Have you or Peeta spoken to Annie recently?”

I frown at the sudden change of topic.

“When was the last time you talked to Annie?” I whisper to Peeta.

“Two weeks ago, I think,” he says, matching my confused frown.

“Not for a couple weeks.” I tell my mother. “Why?”

“Well…we found out this week that Annie’s pregnant,” says my mother.

“ What ?” I gasp. Peeta’s eyes widen with concern so I shake my head to reassure him that she’s okay.

“It came as a shock to her as well,” my mother says, “Obviously she’s been grieving, so she didn’t notice any of the signs until she started showing. She came in for testing on Thursday, we believe she’s due in early July.”

“Is everything alright? How’s she handling it?” I ask.

“As far as we can tell, the baby’s healthy and progressing well, but she’ll be closely monitored for the rest of the pregnancy.” She sighs. “It’s been…the past couple days have been hard for her but I think she’s warming up to the idea now. Johanna’s been here visiting so it’s helped her to have a familiar face around. And I’ve joined her care team at the hospital. I told her I would help her as much as I can since I know what it’s like to raise children after losing a husband.”

“I’m not sure you’re exactly the best role model for that, though,” I mutter despite myself.

“No…I know,” she sighs again. “But I know how she feels, and maybe I can help her so she can avoid my mistakes and be there for her child.”

There for her child. What a joke. As if the woman who moved across the country from her only living daughter knows anything about being there for her child.

“Mom, I have to go,” I say abruptly. “Peeta’s saying dinner’s ready.”

“Oh, alright, I’ll talk to you next week I guess. And I’ll send you that package as soon as I can,” she says.

“Okay, fine, goodbye,” I say before hanging up.

Peeta stares at me, obviously confused.

“This is still going to take a few–” he starts.

“Annie’s pregnant,” I cut him off.

“Oh, no,” he whispers. “Is she okay?”

I shrug. “The baby’s fine. Annie’s having a hard time but Johanna’s there,” I recount to him. “And don’t worry, my mother’s going to teach her how to be there for her child .” I don’t even bother to hide the bitterness in my voice at that last part.

Peeta raises his eyebrows. “Did she say that to you?” he asks incredulously.

All I can manage is a nod before I start crying. Peeta’s arms are around me in a matter of seconds. He seems ready to just hold me and let me cry myself out, but I don’t think he anticipated how much I would cry. That makes two of us, if I’m being honest.

I sob on and off for the rest of the night. I frighten myself a little, because I’ve never been inconsolable quite like this. I vaguely remember something Dr. Aurelius said about how unresolved trauma always makes itself known eventually. 

Peeta releases me briefly to turn off the stove, but only because he knows I would have a hard time forgiving him if he wasted perfectly good food. When it becomes clear that I’m too upset to eat, he takes my hand and gently guides me to the couch. He sits with me while I wrap myself so tightly around him that I’m practically on his lap.

Between sobs I tell him to eat but he won’t without me. Eventually he coaxes some toast into me while he eats his portion of dinner.

“Do you want to talk about it at all?” he asks gently, when I’m between crying spells.

“I just…I spent so long resenting her for what happened when my father died,” I sniff. “And now I understand. I’ve felt it too and I get it and I want to forgive her. But she…how could she…just abandon me like that…again,” I fight to get the sentence out as the next wave of sobs hits me.

“Shh,” Peeta tries to soothe me. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

When Peeta eventually carries me up to bed, I think I’ve finally run out of tears. I curl into him without bothering to change into my pajamas. He holds me tight and strokes my hair and kisses my forehead.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into him. “It’s always been complicated with her, but she’s the only family I have left. And it’s too hard for her to be here and I’m not allowed to leave…sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. And sometimes I wonder if I even want to.” I start to sniff a little and Peeta wipes his thumb under my eyes before more tears can fall.

“You’re wrong about one thing,” he says, frowning.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“She’s not the only family you’ve got,” he says firmly. “I told you before, you and Haymitch are the closest thing to family I have left on this earth. And I know Haymitch feels the same way about the two of us.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “And I hope you understand that we both came here for you without a moment’s hesitation.”

Somehow his words feel more intimate than if he had told me he loves me. I don’t know what to say, how I could possibly explain what him being here means to me. I think I could probably spend a lifetime trying to find the right words to say to him, so for tonight I settle for what I should’ve said to him after that day in the rain, all those years ago.

“Thank you,” I whisper, taking his hand into mine. He pulls my hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss into my palm.

“And by the way,” he says, “if you decide you want to see her, I’ll make sure it happens. Even if I have to go to Four and drag her onto the train myself.”

When I wake up in the morning, it feels like I was hit by a train. My head is pounding, my eyes feel dry and still a little puffy. It’s late, too, Peeta’s clock confirms that it’s well past our usual breakfast time. I drain the glass of water Peeta left for me before going downstairs to find him.

Despite how bad my body feels, my mind feels clearer than it did last night. My heart still feels heavy, but when does it not? At least now I can see past the haze of hurt my mother left me in last night, so maybe I can try to move past it.

“Good morning,” I say as I hover in the doorway to the study. I still don’t like entering the room if I can help it. Peeta’s painting over at the easel he brought over yesterday along with a few canvases and some paints. His music–the peculiar kind he likes to listen to when he paints–is playing softly on the radio. He abandons the project and shuts off the speaker as soon as he hears my voice.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, enveloping me in his arms. I breathe him in for a few seconds while I try to figure out what it is exactly that I’m feeling. Other than the strong thumping of my heart that’s now become standard when Peeta holds me, of course.

“Embarrassed,” I mumble.

He pulls back to look at me, bewildered. “About what?”

“Crying, needing to be carried to bed,” I shrug. “It was Annie’s news, and I made it all about me.”

“Oh right, I forgot only one person in the world can have an issue at a time,” he says sarcastically.

I roll my eyes at him. “You know what I mean. Annie has a real problem, I was just being dramatic.”

“No,” says Peeta firmly. “You weren’t being dramatic. That was a careless thing for your mother to say to you and you’re allowed to feel hurt by it.”

“I’ve said some careless things to her too,” I admit.

Peeta sighs. “Look, no one understands complicated maternal relationships like I do. However you need to process this, I get it, okay?”

“Thank you,” I say, setting my head down against his chest.

“I talked to Annie this morning, by the way. She sounds like she’s doing okay. Shocked, obviously, but she said she’s really happy that part of Finnick will get to live on.” He pauses a moment before adding, “She’s having a boy.”

I try to picture a little boy with Finnick’s bronze hair and playful smirk, but it hurts too much to think about. 

After Peeta and I eat a late breakfast, he’s surprised when I put on hunting clothes. I don’t have the energy to hunt, but I desperately need to get outside for a little while, so I plan to just walk around the woods for a bit. As soon as I step outside, though, my plans change entirely.

Almost immediately I’m back in the house, dropping my game bag by the door. Peeta, who’s still standing at the sink finishing up the dishes, frowns at me as I start rifling through the cabinets. It’s the first time I’ve noticed that Peeta has almost completely rearranged everything from where it was kept before, and I’d find that endearing if it wasn’t so annoying to me now. Finally Peeta dries his hands and helps me find the largest bowl we have. I turn on my heel and head back outside without any further explanation.

The lawn in Victor’s Village is no longer being kept up by Capitol groundskeepers so it’s been allowed to grow free this spring. As a result, the lawn is still scattered in golden yellow dandelions among the puffy white ones. I fall to my knees and begin harvesting as many as I can until the bowl is full. 

“This is for dinner,” I tell Peeta as I set the bowl on the counter. He gives me the same little curious smile he had when I picked the dandelion on our way to the lake. “I'll explain it later,” is all I say before heading upstairs to shower.

Peeta doesn’t ask me anything more about the dandelion salad during the day. Haymitch makes his thoughts clear, however, as I pass out portions for each of us at dinner.

“The three of us combined have more money than the government, why am I eating a bowl of weeds?” Haymitch grumbles.

Peeta glares at Haymitch. “Katniss made this for us,” he says, clearly fighting to keep his voice calm.

“Alright then, Sweetheart, why’re you making me eat a bowl of weeds?” Haymitch asks me. 

Peeta exhales loudly and stands up, returning seconds later with one of the liquor bottles we’ve stashed for times like these. He slams the bottle down in front of Haymitch with a look that clearly says now shut up.

“Katniss, I think you were planning to explain why you chose to make this tonight?” says Peeta in an overly polite tone that almost makes me laugh.

“Yes. Um…” I falter, trying to decide where to begin. “After my father died and my mother…” I trail off. Start again. “I was responsible for feeding us. Only the money ran out and the winter was harsh and nobody helped us. Until…” my eyes meet Peeta’s, and he holds my gaze in a way he couldn’t all those years ago.

“Yeah, yeah. The boy burnt the bread, you didn’t thank him, you picked a dandelion. We know this story,” Haymitch interjects.

Peeta kicks Haymitch under the table and he curses loudly. “Go on, Katniss,” Peeta says with a polite smile at me. This time I do laugh.

“Well that’s it, I guess. After I looked away I saw the dandelion, and I knew we were going to survive. That was…it was the first time in a long time I had felt any hope.” I wait for Haymitch to make some snarky comment but he’s subdued by his drink now, so I continue, “This was the first meal I was able to make for my family, entirely on my own, after the darkest days of my life.” I stare down at my bowl, avoiding both their gazes. “So I wanted to do the same thing now.” For my family , I think, but don’t say out loud. When I look up, I can see in both of their faces that it’s understood. 

The next day I come back from the woods to find Peeta unpacking the latest train shipment into our cabinets. He nods to a box sitting on the counter.

“That one’s for you, it’s from your mother,” he says carefully.

“Oh, right. She said she would send…something…” I trail off. I’m not really sure what the procedure is for telling the boy you share a bed with that your mother sent a box full of ways to prevent pregnancy. “I’ll open it later,” I say noncommittally.

Peeta closes himself in the study to paint while I take my Monday therapy call. I make the mistake of saying it was an “eventful weekend”, which then leads to me having to recap the developments since we last talked. Mourning Gale, my birthday and realizing my feelings for Peeta, and all this business with my mother.

“Well, that certainly was eventful,” says Dr. Aurelius with a chuckle. Is there anything from this past weekend you’d specifically like to dive deeper into?”

“I don’t want to talk about Peeta with you,” I say bluntly. “It’s too complicated with you being both of our doctor, and it’s not a trauma problem. So unless I decide there’s something to discuss, I’d like to keep our relationship private.” 

“Fair enough,” he says, “Your relationship has been an incredibly public matter for the past couple years, I can certainly respect your desire for privacy as you navigate it now.” I hate when he does that, just completely understands the root of my problems like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “But I would like to remind you that should the need to discuss it ever arise, it will stay completely confidential between the two of us.”

We spend the rest of my session talking about my mother. Aurelius draws the same connection I had already made between my mother’s reaction to losing my father and my reaction to losing Prim, which makes me feel all kinds of awful again. Awful for the way I treated her at the time, awful when I think about what my twelve year old self would think of me now.

“I think your twelve year old self ought to cut you a little slack, all things considered,” Dr. Aurelius says when I voice the latter concern.

I feel better by the end of it, but only a little. 

With Peeta still holed up with his painting, I realize now might be the only time I can open the box from my mother without Peeta seeing. I open it cautiously, a little nervous about what I’m about to find inside. There’s a note on top in my mother’s careful handwriting:

Once you figure out what works for you I can send more so you don’t have to worry about ordering it from the Capitol. Please feel free to call me if you have any questions, no matter how embarrassing it may feel. I love you.

Considering the small size of the box, it’s almost alarming how much she’s been able to pack in here. A few different types of pills, each with a note attached detailing their individual benefits and side effects. A little rubber disk that, upon reading the attached note, I never want to look at again. Patches that stick on your arm and somehow prevent pregnancy. And, most mortifying of all, a box full of those same foil squares I found in Peeta’s drawer the other day.

I read the note detailing their use and feel my face go hot as I replay that conversation, especially the amused tone Peeta had. It reminds me of the time he called me pure, which still annoys me. He said himself he’s never had any need for these…things. So we must be in the same boat, right? Still, I’ve got half a mind to kick him out of our bed tonight when I think about his smug little grin.

Our bed. No, there’s no chance I could really kick him out. I don’t want to sleep another night in my life without him. I sigh at the contents of the box spread out around me. We share a home, a bed. We’re in love with each other, even if Peeta doesn’t quite know that fact yet. Is this bound to happen eventually? Do I want it to?

The truth is, I never imagined a life where I could even consider it as a possibility. I planned on never falling in love–which I completely failed at–and never having children–which I now have a box full of products to prevent just that. Still, I never paid much attention in school when we learned about these things and my mother never taught me anything beyond the medical logistics of it all.

Even if Peeta doesn’t have any practical knowledge in this area, I’m sure he still knows a lot more than I do. He had older brothers, after all, and probably at least a few friends who took someone to the slag heap and shared all about their conquests. And I could be wrong, maybe Peeta’s already done this all before. Selfishly, though, I hope not. The thought of Peeta being…intimate with somebody else makes me upset in a way I know isn’t entirely fair.

The sound of his heavy footfalls down the hall pulls me abruptly from my thoughts as I start haphazardly shoving everything back into the box. I have just enough time to stuff it into the cabinet with the remainder of my mother’s healing supplies when he makes it to the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” he asks gently. A glance at the clock reveals I just spent over half an hour lost in my thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry, I just decided to open the box from my mother after I got off the phone,” I tell him.

“Anything fun?” he asks. I can’t help the flood of warmth to my face as I think that, yes, maybe someday the contents of that box could prove to be quite fun.

“It’s just…stuff from the hospital that she thought I might need…at some point,” I say carefully. It’s true enough, at least.

“Oh,” is all Peeta says as he takes in my pink cheeks and evasive explanation.

I sigh. “I should probably call her and make sure she knows it got here,” I mutter.

“Are you going to be okay?” Peeta asks. I nod hesitantly. “What if I make you more cheese buns?” he adds.

I nod more enthusiastically. “Then I’ll definitely be okay.”

I take the phone with me into the spare bedroom so I can speak freely about the box if I need to.

“Hi, Mom,” I say quietly when she answers.

“Oh, Katniss! Is everything okay?” she asks, concerned.

“I’m fine, Mom. I just…got your package today so I just wanted to call and say thanks. I didn’t expect you to get it here so soon,” I say.

“Well I wasn’t sure how soon you’d need it,” she says.

“You and me both,” I mutter, laughing nervously.

With that, I start to fill her in on some of the details about Peeta and me that I haven’t been able to share with him in the room. Not everything, but just the kind of things I think a daughter could normally share with her mother about her first real crush. As if either of us will ever know what normal is. 

After a while, my mother finally says, “Honey, I’m sorry, I’m so glad you called but I really need to get back to the hospital now.”

“Oh, okay,” I say. But I don't say goodbye or try to hang up.

“Katniss, what’s wrong?” she asks, picking up on my hesitancy.

“I really miss you,” I say in a small voice. 

“I miss you too, more than you could ever know,” she says, voice cracking slightly. 

Chapter Text

In the weeks following my birthday, Peeta and I continue to grow closer together. There’s no further discussion about our sleeping arrangement; we just fall asleep in each other's arms now. His clothes are intermixed with mine in the drawers, his toothbrush rests beside mine in the bathroom, his scent permanently lingers on the right side of the bed. 

We continue to go about our normal routines. We wake up early, me more begrudgingly than Peeta as my body tries to adjust to his baker’s hours. After breakfast I hunt and he bakes. In the afternoons he paints and I watch. In the evenings we work on the memory book, although entries are starting to get smaller. Peeta adds his family to the book.

On Mondays and Wednesdays Dr. Aurelius calls. On Saturdays my mother calls. Effie, Annie, and Johanna begin to call sometimes too. When I called them to thank them for the birthday presents, they had each expressed concern for Peeta since he no longer picks up his phone, so I told them he’d be easier to reach if they called him here. 

We’re not healed, but we are healing. One afternoon we’re eating lunch in the backyard when I suddenly realize Peeta’s gone a week without having any flashbacks. He laughs when I insist that we need to celebrate, but then his face takes on a reverent expression as I drag him back to the kitchen and make him bake a batch of cookies with me. The next day, when Peeta has a flashback so intense he needs to lay down for several hours, I lay with him and we eat cookies in bed. My nightmares will never fully go away, but they decrease significantly in frequency and intensity. And when they do come, Peeta’s arms are there to comfort me. And then, so are his lips.

It seems that Peeta took my kiss on his cheek by the lake as clearance to open that door again, not that I’m complaining by any means. My days are now peppered with soft kisses. On my cheeks and my forehead, even my exposed shoulder once as we woke up. But never my lips. Just as Peeta seemingly waited for my permission to get to this step, I feel confident he won’t try anything more without my go ahead. I don’t know what’s stopping me, really. It’s not that I would mind taking things further, I’ve just never been good at initiating these things. 

Peeta and I aren’t the only ones starting to heal. We begin cautiously venturing into the heart of the town, hands held together tightly, to see the beginnings of our new district. It’s still grim, certainly, but the crews have spent the past several months clearing the rubble, burying the dead and letting the smoke clear. Now, instead of a smoldering picture of destruction, our district has been flattened into a blank canvas. Peeta thinks it’s kind of hopeful, but to me it feels very daunting. 

Peeta brings me to visit the grounds where the bakery once stood. It’s been leveled like everything else, but the crews took care to mark off the squares of land where each business once stood. We’re told there will be an official process for assigning land soon, but Thom made it clear this land is Peeta’s if he wants it. The first time we visit, we’re silent the whole time. I just hold Peeta’s hand while he cries. About a week after that, though, Peeta brings me back again, this time armed with his sketchbook. We sit in the empty square of land while he shows me page after page of ideas for the bakery. After a while we start drawing shapes in the dirt, marking the rooms and furnishings from Peeta’s sketches into the land itself. Haymitch catches us returning to the Village that evening, filthy and giggling.

Haymitch isn’t the only one who notices our shift in demeanor. When we show up to the Cartwright’s house for dinner, Peeta and I walking with our fingers interlocked, Delly takes one look at our joined hands and her eyes go wide. But she says nothing. I think she’s probably scared to repeat the just friends incident.

No matter how much Delly tries to spin the temp houses as “charming” and “such an improvement from living underground”, there’s no denying they’re bleak. Peeta was right, the home I grew up with could be considered upscale compared to this. At one point Peeta practically begs Delly to take his house, since he doesn’t use it anyway. This confession earns him matching looks of shock from Delly and me. 

Still, Delly insists she’s happy right where she is. Being in the middle of all the action has its perks, because it seems like Delly knows everything there is to know about District Twelve, from the local gossip to the next steps in the construction efforts. She’s the one who informs us about the town meeting Thom is planning to host on the first of June, after she’s filled us in on the entire family history of her neighbors who moved here from District Five, of course.

For the first time in my life, or at least in recent memory, my days feel consistently happy. It’s nice while it lasts, but it doesn’t last long. As I watch the days tick away on the calendar Peeta pinned up in the kitchen, closer to the end of May, I feel that old familiar heaviness start to creep its way back into my bones. In the week leading up to what should be my sister’s fourteenth birthday, I barely leave the bed at all. 

Peeta’s learned a lot about how to handle me when I’m like this since that first day back in March. He takes care of me without babying me, which I appreciate. He brings me breakfast in bed, but dinner stays downstairs to assure I get out of bed at least once a day. He brings the phone up to me on therapy days so I’ll actually answer. He reminds me of the things that help me feel more human on days like these, showering and talking, and even visiting Haymitch. He tries to get me outside a little bit each day, even if it’s just a short walk around the Village. When all else fails, he stays in bed with me and holds me when I allow him to.

On the morning of Prim’s birthday, the first thing I see when I open my eyes is a vase of primroses on my bedside table. I reach behind me to find Peeta, to thank him and to cry into him, but he’s not there. Buttercup is curled up on his side of the bed, though, so I take a few moments to pet him.

“Happy birthday, Prim,” I whisper into the air. Buttercup’s head perks up at the sound of her name, and I release a sob. I let myself cry for several minutes, wallowing in the reality that she’s not here. And then I force myself to stand up. As hard as today is going to be, I know the last thing she would’ve wanted would be for me to keep wasting away like I have been. And since today is her day, I’ll do my best.

I bring the vase down to the kitchen with me, Buttercup trailing at my feet, and place it carefully on the table.

“Hey,” says Peeta softly, “I was just about to bring breakfast up.”

“It was time for me to get out of bed,” I shrug. 

“Sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.” He must notice the red rim around my eyes.

“It’s okay, I knew you weren’t far,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. “Thank you for the flowers.” 

As we sit down to breakfast I run Peeta through the short list of things I want to do today so he’ll keep me accountable. I made the list yesterday in my session with Dr. Aurelius, after he talked to me about how most people have a hard time on the first birthday, anniversary, or major events after a loved one’s death. The list was meant to give me a way to focus my grief but also find ways to honor her today, or so he said. The list is simple, in theory. Call my mother, go through Prim’s room, and bake a cake.

We decide to start on the cake first, since Peeta explains that the frosting will stay intact better if the cake is already cooled off.

“Did you know she used to come to my house for baking lessons?” he asks as he starts pulling out his mixing bowls and measuring cups.

“No, when was that?” I ask, surprised.

“It started a few weeks after we got back from the Games, up until the Victory Tour,” he says. “She asked if I could teach her to frost cakes one of the times she came by to drop off meat. After that she came over most Sundays, unless your mother had a patient she wanted to help with.”

My heart aches at the thought of all those Sundays wasted in the woods with Gale, when I could have been baking with Prim and Peeta. Not wasted, I remind myself. Gale was my best friend, and Peeta and I weren’t speaking. As for Prim…well I’ll always regret not spending every possible second with her, but that’s a pain I’ll just have to live with.

“What did she like to bake best?” I ask.

“She liked doing cupcakes the most, I think. She got to practice a bunch of frosting patterns at once that way,” he smiles fondly. “And they were easiest to give away. Most weeks she’d bring whatever we baked to the community home or bring them for her friends at school.”

“We should do cupcakes instead, then. And give some away to our friends in her honor,” I say, managing a small smile.

Peeta helps me with the recipe but lets me do all the measuring and mixing and batter tasting myself. When the cupcakes are in the oven and the timer has been set I decide to call my mother while they bake. It’s not a particularly long conversation, just enough to acknowledge the day and tell each other we love them. 

“You’re really flying through that list of yours,” Peeta observes as he takes the cupcakes out to cool.

“The frosting will take a while. And her room will be the hardest part.” 

Peeta follows me as I slowly make my way up the stairs. When we cross the threshold of her room he asks, “Do you want me to stay, or is this something you want to do on your own?”

“Stay with me,” I say desperately, grabbing his hand as if he might run away.

I stand, frozen, in the middle of the room with Peeta beside me. 

“I don’t know where to start,” I finally whisper.

“Well, what’s your goal?” he asks. When I frown at him, confused, he elaborates. “I mean, when you said you wanted to go through her room what did you have in mind? Do you want to completely clean it out? Do you just want to get an idea of what’s in here?”

“Somewhere in between, I guess,” I decide. “I’m not ready to see the room completely empty yet. But if there are things in here that could be put to better use then they shouldn’t just be collecting dust in here.”

Peeta eventually brings up boxes to help me sort through everything. The first is for things that can be donated. This box sits empty for a long time, until Peeta gently reminds me of the conditions surrounding the temporary houses, and how much Prim would love to know that her things were going to those in need. Still, it’s hard to let go of anything. Even the simplest shirt has me whimpering at the way it still smells faintly like her.

This is when Peeta goes to find the second box. He calls this box the “precious items” box. He makes a rule that only the most precious items, the ones that are so quintessentially Prim can go in this box. He reminds me that just because something isn’t in the box, it doesn’t mean we’ll get rid of it. It’s just meant to help me focus in on the things that are most important.

With this in mind, I begin to slowly fill up the box. Her ribbons, her journal, and her reaping outfit are the first things collected. At the top of her closet I find the little box, similar to one I know is stuffed under my bed, where my mother saved some of Prim’s baby things. I remember being so angry with my mother that she wouldn’t let me touch those boxes to sell when we were starving, now I’m grateful it’s still here.

The precious items box helps me start to discern which things can definitely go. I save a good number of the pretty dresses I spoiled her with after the Games and a handful of clothing items that evoke specific memories, but the rest of her clothing goes into the donation box. 

Peeta’s endlessly patient with me. He holds my hand and rubs my back. He wraps his arms around me when I cry and plants little kisses along my forehead. He listens to story after story about Prim. After a few hours when I tell him I’m emotionally spent, he helps me to my feet immediately. We place the precious items box on top of the dresser; it’s a whole other task in and of itself deciding what to do with those objects. Peeta carries the donation box in one arm while keeping my fingers firmly locked between his on the other hand.

After lunch we spend most of the afternoon decorating cupcakes, which proves to lighten my spirits significantly. It’s a welcome contrast to the solemn morning cleaning through a dead girl's possessions. It feels indulgent to have this much fun on such a heavy day, but I don’t think Prim would mind.

Peeta starts by making a big bowl of white buttercream. I’m a perfect student as he gives me quick lessons on mixing colors and what the different tips for his frosting bags do, although that doesn’t stop me from having about a hundred questions when I’m actually working. He doesn’t mind, though. He just lets me frost to my heart's content while he supervises. 

“Stop staring at me, you’re making me nervous,” I say without looking at him as I try, and fail, to make a frosting flower.

“I’m sorry, you’re just cute when you concentrate,” he says with a shrug.

I look up at him, surprised by his boldness. For a moment we just stand there staring sizing each other up to see if the other will recoil in embarrassment. There’s almost a tangible electricity in the air between us. Finally, Peeta is the first to avert his gaze back to the cupcakes, but there’s a lopsided grin on his face.

“We should probably deliver these soon,” he says softly.

They’re nothing special when they’re done, but they could’ve turned out a lot worse too. The first cupcake goes to Haymitch, who we end up inviting over for dinner tonight. Sae and May Belle each get one as well. Peeta suggests we bring one over to Thom, but he’s not home so we end up leaving two with his girlfriend, Ivy. It seems unfair to exclude her from the cupcakes now that she’s seen them. And besides, Prim was always trying to get me to make new friends.

We pick up the donation box on our way into town, figuring that Delly knows everyone’s business enough that she’ll know who’s most in need of the items. She’s delighted to receive surprise cupcakes, then appropriately subdued when she learns what they’re for. She gives me a big hug and promises to find good homes for Prim’s clothes. My heart aches when we leave the box behind. Peeta wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me tightly against him as we walk back home.

With five remaining cupcakes, we decide to have one apiece now and save the remaining three for after dinner with Haymitch. Haymitch arrives more sober than I’ve seen him in months. He’s quieter too, obviously knowing better than to mess with me today. I appreciate his tact, but the quiet demeanor around the table is unsettling.

“I think…” Peeta finally speaks up hesitantly. “I think we should tell stories about Prim. Ones we maybe haven’t told before?” he adds to me.

I nod, but I can’t think of anything the two of them haven’t heard already. Apparently Peeta already had something in mind, though.

“When Coin decided to send me with Squad 451, Prim was the one who delivered the news, did you know that?” he asks me. I shake my head. “She came and visited me a lot in the hospital, and she was one of the few people I really trusted then. I was so confused, and scared obviously. But she just kept telling me that everything would be okay, and that…no matter what I believed, as long as I was with you I would be safe.”

We stare at each other for a long time, until finally Haymitch speaks up, reminding us of his presence.

“Neither of you got the pleasure of being in the room when she found out he was going back to the Capitol, though,” he says with a fond chuckle. “Coin was going to deliver the news herself, but Prim overheard and just about lost her damn mind.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I can’t imagine sweet little Prim so much as raising her voice.

“She flipped her shit. She understood what the rest of us did, that Coin fully intended to discontinue the Mockingjay program, but she was the only one brave enough to vocalize it. Loudly. With words that almost made me blush.”

The image of Prim screaming and cursing is so bizarre that I burst out laughing. Peeta laughs a little too, shaking his head in disbelief.

“But she was so calm when she talked to me, though,” he says.

“Yeah, that was the scariest part of it all,” says Haymitch. “Prim was so worked up, Coin must’ve thought it would set you off and move everything along quicker so she let her tell you. Only once Prim was given the go ahead, she took one big deep breath, then walked straight into your room and delivered one of the kindest, most eloquent speeches I’ve ever heard.”

The two of them continue to go back and forth, telling me stories about Prim I’ve never heard before. How she made Haymitch stay in their compartment with her and my mother the night we were all declared dead on TV. How she made the salve for Peeta’s leg within a week of us returning home from the Games. It makes me happy, in a bittersweet way, to think that so much of Prim exists in other people’s memories as well. That even though she’s gone, there’s still so much to learn about her.

It’s only when Peeta brings out the remaining cupcakes that I realize I haven’t told any stories yet. I remember one of the stories my father used to tell us on Prim’s birthday when she was little. I swear I remember the day, but it was reinforced so many times by my father’s voice that it’s hard to say what’s what now.

So I tell Peeta and Haymitch all that I can remember. My father pacing our little house, rotating between watching me and taking care of my mother. Even at a young age it was clear I’d rather be somewhere else during any kind of medical crisis, so I hid for a lot of the day. But I remember holding my mother’s hand at one point, when the pain was unbearable and she was crying. I ended up sleeping right through the birth, so it was in the early hours of the next morning that my father spun me around and told me that I had a baby sister.

My mother was asleep then, as was baby Prim. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I begged my father to let me hold her. He knew my mother would want to see the first time their girls met, but I wanted to hold her so badly he couldn’t resist.

“Just don’t tell Mama, okay?” he had whispered with a wink, but I giggled as I could see my mother’s open eyes and raised eyebrows behind him. 

When baby Prim was gently lowered into my arms, it was the proudest I’d ever been, even though I hadn’t done anything. As I looked down at my baby sister, though, my father noticed me frowning at her.

“Daddy, is she sick?” I asked. 

“No, Katniss. She’s perfect,” he said. “Why do you think she’s sick?”

“She’s so… pink !” I exclaimed. In my life, I had only ever seen Seam babies with olive skin like mine. This brought a laugh from both of my parents as they realized the source of my confusion. 

Unsurprisingly, at the end of my story I burst into tears. I’ve held it together pretty much all day, so it was bound to happen eventually. Peeta kneels down beside me and wraps me in his arms. I expect Haymitch to make his excuses, but he doesn’t. He surprises me by reaching over to pat my head while I sob. It’s a gesture that would be awkward if it wasn’t so comforting at this moment.

“I’m just so sick of crying,” I say miserably. 

Haymitch looks between the pair of us and sighs. “I wish I could tell you it gets better but it never really goes away. Eventually it just gets easier to carry.” He pats my head one last time before he goes.

I tighten my grip on Peeta. “Thank you for everything today,” I whisper in his ear.

“I didn’t really do anything,” he mumbles. I pull back so I can see him, cupping my hand on his cheek.

“Peeta, I couldn’t have survived this day without you,” I tell him.

There’s that electricity again as we stare into each other's eyes. My words hang in the air like a confession. It takes everything in me not to kiss him. Not now, when I’ve been crying, when I’m so emotionally vulnerable.

No, when I finally kiss Peeta, I need him to know that it’s just about him. He deserves at least that. He deserves everything.

But for both our sakes, I hope the opportunity presents itself soon.

Chapter Text

Peeta and I are eating lunch together a few days after Prim’s birthday, when I notice that something’s off. Peeta’s much quieter than usual, and at one point I swear his hands are shaking as he lifts his cup to his mouth.

“Is everything okay?” I finally ask.

“Yeah,” he says, taken aback, as if he hadn’t realized he’s been acting strange. “Sorry, just…thinking I guess.”

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“It’s just…” he takes a deep breath. “I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me tonight?”

I almost laugh, but catch myself in time. “We eat dinner together every night,” I say, amused.

“Right, I know. I mean…I was thinking something a little different from our normal dinners. Something nicer,” he clarifies. “We could get dressed up and you could come over to my house and I’d cook for you.”

I furrow my brow at him. I don’t understand why he’s asking this, and why he’s so nervous. And why would we get dressed up to eat at his house? No, I don’t understand any of it at all. Until suddenly I do.

“Peeta, are you asking me on a date?” I ask, expression softening.

“Yeah, I think I am,” he says slowly, his blue eyes wide with apprehension. “Is that okay?”

“I’ll allow it,” I say as a smile creeps onto my lips. “And dinner sounds wonderful.”

After that, the energy in the room shifts significantly. We’re both acting like nervous idiots, bumping into each other and stumbling over our words and grinning ridiculously.

“I should probably go start getting everything ready,” says Peeta eventually. “Can you come over around six?”

“Okay,” I say, smiling. “Will you be gone until then?”

“Probably, between cooking and clearing the dust out of the place it’ll be a while,” he admits.

I go up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you at six, then.”

I’m a little disappointed that he has to leave, but it might be for the best that we both have a few hours to calm down and remember how to act like humans around each other.

Still, the next several hours creep by at an excruciatingly slow pace. It’s been so long since I’ve really had time entirely alone like this, I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s hard to imagine this was how I spent all my days before Peeta came back, alone with nothing to do. Then again, I was in a different place, mentally, back then.

Unable to stand the silence, I trudge over to Haymitch’s house. He’s definitely a little drunk, but not too far gone yet. It’s almost funny to see him relaxing on the couch with a book instead of passed out at his kitchen table.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks when I walk in. None of us knocks when we enter each others’ homes, and for a group of traumatized victors we’re surprisingly lax about locking our doors.

“Just popping by for a chat, I’ve been told I don’t do that enough,” I say, settling into the armchair across from him.

He narrows his eyes at me then exchanges his book for a liquor bottle from a nearby crate.

“Shouldn’t you be ogling at the boy while he paints or something?” he asks.

“Haymitch, I’m a convicted assassin. I don’t ogle, ” I say with a scowl.

“Whatever you say,” he mutters as he pops the lid off his bottle.

“So where is he, then?” Haymitch asks after a few moments of quiet between us.

“He’s at his house,” I say evasively.

“You two get in a fight?” he presses.

“No, we’re fine,” I say, suppressing a smile. “We’re having dinner at his house tonight, so he’s cleaning up.” Haymitch raises an eyebrow at this, but apparently he’s sick of asking questions so he doesn’t ask.

“You think of anyone you want to add to the book?” I ask after a while of sitting in silence, watching Haymitch read. He just glares at me. There’s a whole stack of books on his coffee table so I grab one at random and start to flip through it. It’s full of complicated poetry with made up words I’ve never heard of. But there’s one dog-eared page I know from one of my father’s songs.

“Stop,” Haymitch commands.

“Stop what?” I ask, looking up.

“Humming that song. I just got it out of my head,” he complains.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing it,” I admit. 

I continue to leaf through the books for the next half hour or so. Haymitch has to tell me three more times to stop humming.

“Sorry, that one really sticks with you,” I apologize.

This draws an unexpected–and frankly unsettling–laugh out of Haymitch.

I stay with him for a while longer before heading back home. When I get back to the house I think about Peeta saying we should dress up. I don’t want to wear one of my mother’s dresses tonight, I want something that’s my own. I have more dresses than I’ll ever need thanks to Cinna. Most of them are kept in the storage closet in the downstairs bedroom, since there’s not much use for them on a day-to-day basis.

It’s only when I enter that I remember my birthday presents are still in here. I lift the yellow dress from Annie out of the box and smile at it. It’s not scarred with memories of the Games or lost friends, it’s something entirely new. Perfect for tonight.

I examine the other contents of the box. I decide to bring the wine from Effie with me tonight. After all, she said to save it for a special occasion. 

The prep team box could be useful too. When I wrote to them to thank them–I didn’t have the energy to call them and hear them talk for three hours about Capitol gossip and post-war fashion trends–I wrote lots of things about how excited I was to use the kit and how wonderful it will be to be pretty again. In truth, I haven’t even opened the box to see what’s inside.

It’s less offensive than I expected. The makeup included is in shades natural to my coloring rather than the Capitol bright hues I would’ve expected from them, and they didn’t even bother to include any type of hair removal product, knowing full well I’d never use it. Along with the makeup there’s an instruction book on elaborate braided hairstyles and an assortment of nice smelling bath oils.

I take a long hot bath using one of the oils, even though I get tired of it pretty quickly. Growing up, baths were a quick process due to necessity and tepid water, and after the Games I only took baths as part of prep. I know this is meant to be relaxing, but instead I find myself alternating between being bored out of my mind and fretting about what might happen with Peeta tonight. Overall, it just makes me feel like I’m a part of a very anxious stew. Still, I stay until the water starts to cool off.

What happens tonight? I think for the hundredth time. The question echoes in my mind as I towel off, as I make my way downstairs, as I nervously pick at a cheese bun. Obviously, Peeta must have picked up on my feelings for him or he wouldn’t have asked. So this is it, right? Tonight things change between us. The thought makes my stomach flip.

It also makes me realize it’s time to address the box from my mother again. Not that I think I’ll need it tonight, per say, but I promised her I’d make responsible choices. And like it or not, the responsible thing to do right now is to understand all my options before they’re necessary.

I take longer than before to really read through the information my mother’s given, to understand the effectiveness and side effects of each option. I settle on a box of pills that have to be taken once every day but have the highest chance of preventing pregnancy and minimal adverse effects. I take the first one now, but only because I’m very responsible.

With an hour left before dinner I change into my dress and attempt one of the hairstyles from the book that seems easy enough. It’s just a few braids pinned at the back of my head while the rest falls freely. It still takes a few tries, but it turns out alright. For the most part I ignore the makeup, but I do dab on a lipstick that’s just a bit darker than my lips. I actually smile as I assess the final look. It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt kind of pretty without feeling like I’m in some kind of costume.

At a quarter to six I’m ready and giddy and can hardly stand to wait another moment, so I grab the wine bottle and head across the lawn to Peeta’s house.

I knock on the door as a courtesy. I smile to myself as I hear his loud steps through the door, rushing to meet me. 

“Hey, you’re— wow .” He blinks several times as he takes a good look at me, finally adding, “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I say with a blush and a shy smile. “You look…” I take him in the same way he just did. He’s in an undershirt tucked into a pair of tan slacks, there’s a streak of flour across one cheek, and his curls are unruly in the way I’ve seen after he showers but before he adds whatever product he uses to tame them. “…like you’re not ready for me,” I finish. 

“Well you’re early,” he points out. 

“Traffic was light,” I say with a shrug. He laughs. “Do you want me to come back?”

“No, stay here,” he says. “As long as you don’t mind seeing behind the scenes.”

It’s sweet the way he’s cleaned the house, as if I haven’t spent countless hours here. It’s the first time I’ve seen his living room without paintings everywhere. I follow him into the kitchen, where things are a little less neat and orderly.

“Anything I can do to help?” I ask.

“Not a chance,” he says with a laugh. Then he glances at me, noticing the bottle of wine in my hand for the first time. “Well, actually, do you want to hunt around for wine glasses? I know I have some but I’ve never used them.”

I nod, grateful for something to do instead of just sitting and watching him. I explore around the kitchen until I finally see the glasses on the top shelf of an overhead cabinet. Peeta’s busy with something in the oven so I hoist myself up onto the counter, from there I can just reach the glasses if I go up on my knees.

I feel his hand press into my lower back and a shiver runs through me. I turn around to see him giving me an exasperated look, at which I throw a teasing grin over my shoulder. 

“You know I climb trees everyday, right?” I say.

“Not in a dress,” he points out.

I shrug as I turn and lower myself to sit on the edge of the counter, putting me suddenly face-to-face with Peeta. 

“Hi,” I whisper, struck by his closeness

“Hi,” he whispers back. We’re staring at each other, my lips ever so slightly parted, when a timer goes off. 

“You should probably get that,” I say, still not taking my eyes off of him. 

“A little burnt bread never killed anyone, right?” he says.

But then, with a kiss to the tip of my nose, he bursts our little bubble first, evidently unable to let good food go to waste. He’s been working on it for quite some time. I can’t say I blame him, even if I’m disappointed.

I hop down from the counter and bring the wine glasses to the table. It’s already set for the two of us. I twist off the top of the bottle, grateful this bottle doesn’t have a cork for me to have to figure out, when I’m struck by a realization.

“Peeta, do you drink?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not often, but I’ll have a little wine.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink,” I say, racking my brain.

“I tried a couple drinks on the Victory Tour, you just had other things on your mind. And I got pretty drunk one time, but I’m not planning on doing that again,” he says.

“Why, what happened?” I ask.

“Oh, it was fine. I mean, I think I ended up crying at Haymitch’s kitchen table, but it was otherwise uneventful,” he says with a shrug. He hesitates a moment. “I just…it’s lost any kind of appeal to me now. I don’t have any desire to not be fully in control of my mind anymore.”

I stare at him, horrified, as I realize what he means. “We really don’t have to–”

“Pour the wine, Katniss,” he says. “Don’t worry, I know my limits.”

I don’t really have a standard for how much wine is the right amount. I pour a glass about two-thirds full and look up at Peeta.

“Probably less than that for me, please,” he says.

I nod and start to pour the other glass slower. It’s a little less than halfway full when Peeta says, “That’s perfect.”

Peeta excuses himself to finish getting ready. He returns a few minutes later looking very striking in a light blue dress shirt the exact same shade as his eyes.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, smiling. “You look very nice, although I think you should’ve left the flour on your face.”

He laughs. “For the record,” he says, nodding to the clock, “I would have been ready when you got here if you weren’t so damn impatient.”

“I make no apologies for wanting to spend more time with you,” I say, loosely wrapping my arms around his neck and tilting my face up towards his.

“Well, then, you’ll hear no more complaints from me.” He gives me a dazed smile as he lightly places his hands on my waist.

“Do you want me to go back to the door and pretend I just got here?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes at me, “No, I think I’ll be okay just starting from here.”

He pulls out my chair and gestures for me to sit. After I’m seated he brings over a small basket of round flatbreads and a dish of butter, followed by two plates of mashed potatoes and grilled chicken.

“This looks delicious,” I tell him as I butter my bread. “Mm, what kind of bread is this?” I ask after taking a bite.

“It’s pita bread,” he answers.

“I see the resemblance,” I say, looking from the bread to Peeta. “Is this one of your own recipes, then?”

“No,” he laughs, “no, the type of bread is called pita. P-I-T-A.”

The realization must dawn on my face rather stupidly, because then Peeta laughs and says, “Yes, my baker father named me after bread on purpose.”

I start to laugh. “Well in my defense, I’d never heard of it before now.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to know it,” he says kindly.

Suddenly I let out an embarrassing snort of laughter. “Sorry, I just got the name Wheaton. Like wheat.”

“Just wait until you find out about the name Graham,” Peeta says, smirking.

“So was it a family tradition thing, then? Bakers naming their children after bread?” I ask.

“No, my dad’s name was Otho. I don’t know where the bread thing came from. Maybe because liking bread was the only thing my parents had in common,” Peeta says contemptuously, taking a sip of his wine.

It’s still hard for me to wrap my head around sometimes, the idea of his parents not loving each other. The way Peeta loves so well despite that being his model growing up. I don’t know if I could even recognize loving Peeta for what it is without the example my parents had set.

“So what about you?” Peeta asks. “Do you come from a long line of plant names?”

“I don’t know,” I realize. “Burdock and Asterid–my parents–are plant names. And obviously me and Prim. But I hardly know anything about my father’s side of the family, and my mother’s side wanted nothing to do with us.”

“Their loss,” Peeta says, taking my hand from across the table and kissing the back of it. 

The conversation continues to flow steadily throughout dinner. I’m surprised how much we have to talk about, considering we spend almost all of our time together. Even more, I can’t believe how normal it all is. We avoid talking about the war or the Games, opting instead to talk about our childhoods and our families and our old school. I can almost imagine this is the way it would have been if none of it had ever happened; if Peeta had been able to work up the nerve to talk to me, if I had been able to let down my guard enough to let him in.

If there’s ever been a perfect night in my life, this is it. The food’s delicious, as always, and I tell Peeta so at every opportunity I get. Peeta holds my hand the entire time we eat and talk. He keeps gently stroking my hand with his thumb, absentmindedly, I think. Like he can’t tell that the simple action makes me feel like my heart’s about to explode. Even the wine is great. It’s sweeter than the wine I’ve had in the Capitol, and I surprise myself by finishing my whole glass.

All these factors combined have me feeling euphoric by the time dessert rolls around. Peeta brings out a little chocolate cake for us to split. It’s warm and decadent, and when I reach the gooey chocolate center I let out a moan that actually makes Peeta blush. I’m so beyond caring, though. I feel so light and carefree and in love that I don’t think anything could bother me tonight.

“Let’s see,” says Peeta, “I think we’ve pretty much covered the full range of typical first date topics.” I laugh a little because it’s so bizarre for us to be doing anything typical , and also a little bit because it hits me once again that we’re really on a date. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?” he asks.

“What happened on January 14th?” I blurt out before I can really think better of it. 

It’s only now that it really strikes me that I may have had more wine than I should have. Somewhere in my mind I can feel sensible, guarded Katniss try to take back the reins, but it’s too late. It’s out there now. The question has circled around my mind for all these months, since I read that line in Peeta’s careful handwriting.

January 14 - Fell (back) in love with Katniss.

It takes him a moment to understand, but when it clicks I see his face melt from confusion to something unreadable. Something in his expression jolts me back in time, to standing next to those train tracks. Crushing the onion tops in my hand and the heart of the boy in front of me in one blow. I’m trying to think of something, anything , to say to take that look off of his face when his expression softens.

“You’ve been holding onto that one for a while, haven’t you?” he says with a soft laugh.

I nod, biting my lip. “I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it,” I say quickly. 

“We can,” he says, “It’s okay. I don’t have any secrets from you.” Am I too tipsy to read his tone correctly, or is there an edge of bitterness in his voice? 

“I started staying at the facility after you shot Coin. I had already worked out the details before the execution so I moved forward with the plan, I didn’t really know what else to do. So I continued with my therapies and tried to get my head in order,” he starts. “What you have to understand is that at that point…how do I explain it? I remembered who I used to be but it was almost like it was someone else’s life. I didn’t really have…feelings attached to any of it.”

I nod along, trying to follow along as best as I can with my mind slightly hazy.

“So that’s where I was at on January 14th when I was called to the training center for questioning regarding the assassination”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“It’s okay,” he says with a laugh, “It worked out alright in the end. So anyway, they brought me up to the twelfth floor and did my questioning. It didn’t take very long, so after it was done I sat with Haymitch for a while until they could send a car to come get me again. He filled me in on how things were going there and I got to see you on the screens. And then…” he trails off, as if considering how to say the next part.

“Then I heard you singing,” he says quietly, “and it was like…everything I’d ever felt came crashing down on me. And suddenly everything made sense again.”

This is where I should tell him that I love him. I should tell him about the lake and every moment both before and since that made me fall in love with him. But sensible, guarded Katniss is back in control, and she’s never been good at saying the right thing at the right time.

So instead, without a word, I rise to my feet and try to pull Peeta with me by our still entwined hands. He gives me a questioning look as he stands to join me.

“Dance with me?” I ask.

He laughs, bewildered. “Our radio’s back at your house,” he points out.

“That’s okay,” I whisper, “I’ll sing.” 

I wrap my arms around his neck and start to hum. Slowly, tentatively, Peeta places his hands on my waist. I get through several songs as we sway in slow circles for a while and I try to steal the nerve for what I need to do. What I want to do. 

Finally I move one of my hands to cup his face. Slowly, I tilt my face up to his. We’re so close, so tantalizingly close to finally closing the distance between us when he stops me.

“Katniss,” he whispers, almost reproachfully.

The hurt hits me like a blow to the gut. 

“You don’t want to kiss me?” I ask, wounded.

“You know I do,” he reassures me. “But not like this, not now”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Katniss, you’re drunk.”

It’s like kissing someone who’s drunk. It doesn’t count. 

No, you stay out of this.

“Only a little,” I whisper so desperately it almost comes out more as a whine.

He runs his thumb over my lips contemplatively, but then he gives a sad smile and shakes his head. “Not like this,” he whispers.

It sinks in that this is where the night will end. With nothing different between us. This perfect night with the great food and the wonderful boy and the stupid wine. My heart aches to look at him now. To remember how nervous he was to ask me here, how sweetly he planned out this evening.

“I ruined everything, didn’t I?” I ask miserably. 

“No,” he says quickly, pulling me tightly against his chest. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs into my hair.

“So should we just…go to bed?” I ask a little awkwardly. I don’t know how Peeta expected this night to end, but I know I certainly was hoping for something more between us. Now I just want this day to end as quickly as possible so I can wake up sober and actually kiss him.

“You go, I need to clean up the dishes here”

“Can’t that wait until tomorrow? I hate falling asleep without you,” I admit.

I take his hand as we make our way back across the lawn together. Peeta stays in the kitchen for a few minutes to knead the dough that he left to rise for tomorrow’s bread. I change into my pajamas and wait for him in bed.

He hands me a glass of water when he comes upstairs. 

“I don’t think you really had enough to risk a hangover tomorrow, but you might want to drink that just in case,” he says. He places a lingering kiss on my forehead before heading into the bathroom.

Tomorrow, I think wistfully as I drink my water. Tomorrow I’ll fix this. 

When he climbs into bed with me I curl into his side like I always do.

“Goodnight, pita bread,” I whisper into his chest. He laughs before kissing my forehead once more.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” he whispers back.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Chapter Text

I wake up in an empty bed. The cold sheets next to me confirm that Peeta’s been up for a while. I’m worried that something happened to make him wake up so early.

Still, I find him in the kitchen, right where I’d expect him to be. His back’s to me while he works, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. I try to make more noise than usual as I approach him, so I don’t startle him. But once I reach him and I wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my head between his shoulder blades, he tenses up. After a moment he puts one of his hands on top of mine across his stomach, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t lessen.

“Good morning,” he says quietly.

“Morning,” I reply. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“No, I just couldn’t fall back asleep,” he says.

“You should wake me up when you’re getting out of bed,” I tell him.

“You were sleeping peacefully, I didn’t want to disturb that,” he says.

“Still, I can always fall back asleep, but I like knowing where you are when I wake up,” I say.

Only now do the muscles in his back start to relax, but only slightly. “Okay,” is all he says in reply.

Peeta dishes out a bowl of eggs and nudges it towards my hands. Reluctantly I release my grip on him and take the bowl. I expect him to follow me to the table like he always does, but instead I see him start to wrap up a few loaves of bread. Like he’s leaving.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.

“I already ate. I’ve been up for a long time,” he admits.

For the first time I see the dark circles under his eyes and wonder if he slept at all. 

“Peeta, what’s–”

“Are you planning to go to that town meeting? It starts at noon. I just need to take care of a few things before then.” he asks. He seems intent on avoiding my gaze.

“I’ll go if you’re going, although I kind of just figured we knew all of it from Delly already, though,” I attempt to joke.

“Well I need to go to talk to Thom about the bakery,” he says humorlessly. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to go,” I say, confused. “Is everything–”

“Okay, we can walk over together when it’s time, then,” he says over me. Then just like that he’s out the door.

What the hell just happened?

I spend the next however many hours that Peeta’s gone in a daze. For a while I’m worried I was drunker than I realized last night, and I must’ve said or done something to upset Peeta. But no, I find that I’m able to recall the night in total detail. If anything, I think Peeta made me out to be more inebriated than I was. Yes, I was a little looser with some of my words, but I was perfectly lucid. 

I can’t work out why he seemed so upset this morning. Not even upset. Distant. Avoidant. So unlike himself. By the time it’s time to head over to the square, I still can’t come up with any reason that last night went wrong besides my alleged intoxication. And even that doesn’t seem to explain this morning.

I meet Peeta out front as he’s leaving Haymitch’s house. He smiles softly at me, and when I tentatively hold out my hand to him he takes it immediately. Maybe I was wrong to think whatever happened this morning was about me. We still need to talk about it, though.

“I’m sorry about last night. With the wine,” I start.

Peeta gives a little huff of laughter. “Katniss, I don’t care about the wine.”

My shoulders sag. “Then what’s bothering you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says dismissively.

I frown at him. “I thought we were honest with each other.”

“Katniss, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” I say fiercely.

Peeta sighs and rakes his free hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I feel really stupid about the whole thing, I shouldn’t have asked you out like that.”

My heart sinks. “Why not?” I ask quietly.

“Because…I can’t believe I did this again. I got so caught up in my own feelings and I really thought…” he hesitates a moment. “I really thought something was different this time, but I just messed everything up now.”

“Peeta, I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I admit. He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“When I came back to Twelve, I kept thinking that the only silver lining of the hijacking was that it gave us a clean slate. I was going to keep my feelings to myself this time and just focus on being friends,” he explains. “And then if, by some miracle, something more developed between us naturally, at least then I would know it was…real.” The last word comes out as a resigned whisper.

It’s the first time it really hits me that Peeta was playing real or not real with my feelings since long before the hijacking. I’ve had the luxury of knowing he’s loved me all along, while Peeta’s been completely in the dark about what I feel for him. He’s never quite known what was for the cameras and what was just for us. It makes sense that he’d want us to be on even ground for once.

“But…that still doesn’t explain why you think last night was a mistake,” I say.

“You’ve known . This whole time you’ve known how I feel about you,” he insists.

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything, Katniss!” he cries out. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be with me just because you pity me or think you owe it to me or something.”

We reach what was once the town square. Now it’s just a flattened piece of earth like the rest of the district, but it’s been set up with a makeshift stage at the front and rows and rows of chairs. I pull Peeta to a stop before we get too close to the crowd.

“Not real, Peeta,” I tell him firmly. He frowns at this. “It’s not like that. Yes, I’ve known how you feel this whole time but I’ve never once felt pressured by it. Especially not by you. And trust me, if it had bothered me I would’ve found an urn to push you into months ago,” I say with a little smirk. Peeta finally laughs at this. I’m glad to see him smile.

“You have been constantly respectful and patient with me,” I continue. “You have nothing to feel stupid about, okay?”

I keep my eyes locked on his, desperate for him to understand this much before we go any further. I don’t want him to think, even for one second, that he’s made me uncomfortable or forced me into a position I don’t want to be in. Finally he nods slowly, and I pull him towards two empty seats at the back. I’m shocked at how many people are here, there must be at least two hundred people.

Peeta seems to fully relax for the first time today as he processes the conversation.

“Okay, then we can go back to normal?” he asks. “Pretend last night was just a regular dinner?”

I frown. “So we’ll just…go back to being best friends who hold hands everywhere and spend all our time together and sleep in the same bed?” I ask. “Is that really what you want?”

“Well…yeah, I guess,” he says with a shrug. “If that’s what you want.”

I think about how excited I was last night, how ready I was to move to the next step in our relationship, even if I’m not quite sure what that is. And then I realize that I have to figure out what that step is, and soon, because after this conversation there’s no chance Peeta will initiate anything more between us without my explicit consent.

“What if it’s not?” I blurt out.

“What?” he turns to me, confused.

“That’s not what I want,” I tell him. Confusion melts into shock on his face. 

“Then…what do you want?” he asks slowly.

“Hi, everyone. Thanks for coming this afternoon,” Thom says from the makeshift stage up front. Peeta looks between Thom and me so frantically that I almost expect him to stand up and shout for Thom to stop the meeting. I put a hand on his knee before he can do anything crazy.

“We’ll finish this later,” I whisper. He continues to stare at me with wide, desperate eyes. I crack a smile. “Pay attention, you’re the one who wanted to come to this.”

We do our best to stay focused on the meeting, but our eyes keep flitting over to each other, bringing shy smiles to both our faces. It’s interesting information, at least, full of snippets of good news. Tomorrow they’ll set up a public market in the square, where everyone can buy, sell, and trade with each other. Construction will start on new businesses by the end of the month, and our district has been provided a rather generous loan fund in order to help businesses get started. The mines will not reopen. Instead, the Capitol has provided a list of potential industries for District Twelve to take over, and we will vote on it next month.

The discussion of the voting brings more news, this time bittersweet. On July 4th, each District will be holding a memorial ceremony to commemorate the first year without a reaping. Thom’s glance in our direction as he announces this all but confirms that there will be camera crews. Of course. I’m sure plenty of people are still dying to know if the Mockingjay really lost her mind or not. Peeta squeezes my hand a few times to remind me I’m not alone anymore.

At the end of the meeting Thom thanks everyone for coming and reminds those who are looking to open a business to meet him upfront to discuss the next steps. Peeta and I hang around the back while the crowd starts to disperse.

Peeta looks guiltily toward the front. “I guess I have to…” 

“You go, I can wait for you,” I say with a soft smile. I kiss his cheek before he goes.

I’m looking to find anyone I know in the crowd when something small hurls itself at my legs. I look down to see a little girl clinging to my waist.

“Posy!” I cry out. “What are you doing here? Did you walk all the way from Thirteen by yourself?” I joke, squatting down next to her.

She giggles. “No, Katniss. We took a train! It was so fast!”

The smile falls from my face as I realize what we could mean. “Is your whole family here?” I ask

“Not everyone,” answers Hazelle from above me. I scoop Posy up into my arms, she’s better fed than she’s ever been but still tiny. “We spent some time in Two with Gale, but in the end we decided this is still home. He has to stay there for the job, though.” The sadness in her eyes tells me she knows at least some of what happened between us.

“Is he doing okay?” I ask quietly

“He’ll be alright,” she says. “What about you?”

I shrug. “I’m getting better,” I say.

“You let me know if you need anything, you hear? As far as I’m concerned we’re still family,” Hazelle says gently.

“Thanks, Hazelle. Same goes for all of you, if you need anything,” I tell her. I give her a quick hug and give Posy a kiss on the forehead before they leave.

My eyes find Peeta in the back of the crowd of future merchants. The question is etched into his face when his eyes meet mine: Did he come back? I give him a small shake of my head, and he can’t quite hide the relief in his eyes. You okay? he mouths. I nod and give him a soft smile. Peeta looks back to the front where Thom’s talking about something, then he shoots me an exasperated look. I can tell this is going to take a while. I quickly glance over my shoulder at the woods. When I look back Peeta’s smirking at me. Go, he mouths. I give him an apologetic look and a wave as I turn to leave.

In the woods, my mind finally feels free to contemplate the past twenty-four hours with Peeta. More importantly, to contemplate the question he asked before getting cut off.

What do you want?

Over and over the phrase repeats itself in my head. When I check my snares, what do you want? When I take out several squirrels, what do you want? When I perch myself in a tree to wait out larger game, what do you want?

I know I want Peeta. I want to fall asleep every night in his arms and wake up every morning by his side. I want to tell him all the most mundane details about my day and pretend I have half a clue what he’s talking about when he explains the different rise times of dough. I want to laugh at his stupid jokes and stare at him for hours while he paints. I want to share my home, my life, my heart with him. And I want to kiss him. God, I want to kiss him. I think, maybe, I want to love him until the day I die. And I know for sure that I want him to never doubt again if my love is real or not.

It’s putting a name to all that that’s my issue. I think that I’d be okay never putting a name to it if it weren’t for that last part. After all his patience and his confusion when it comes to me, Peeta deserves clarity. When I go home, Peeta will need an answer to the question.

Which is why I stay in the woods for a very long time. Because, truth be told, I’m scared. I’m scared that I won’t have the answer he needs. I’m scared that taking the next step will change everything for us, and that if something goes wrong it means I would lose my best friend and the love of my life all at once. 

I think back to those months in Thirteen that I wandered around like a ghost, the weeks I spent wasting away before he came and brought me back to life. Maybe I don’t need him to survive, but I know I certainly would not survive the loss of Peeta Mellark from my life again.

I take out my anxieties on any creature that has the bad luck of crossing my path. Hours later, I’m sitting at the base of a tree with my head in my hands and a pile of dead animals at my feet. If I don’t go home soon, he’ll start to worry.

It’s the thought of returning home to him that finally quiets my worries like a soothing balm to my heart. Peeta found his way back to loving me after being tortured and brainwashed to despise me. I fell in love with him even in the midst of my deepest grief and trauma. We’ve been through hell and back to get here, and we’re not going to lose this now.

Realizing my game bag is still at the house, I scoop the entire pile into my arms and nearly run back home. I make a quick detour to Sae’s house, handing over all but a few squirrels.

When I get back to the house, Peeta is asleep on the couch. I drape the nearest blanket over him and press a long kiss onto his head, but when he doesn’t stir I know he must be deep into sleep. As much as I want to finish what we started earlier, I think about those dark circles under his eyes and decide to let him sleep a little longer.

I spend a good chunk of time dressing and preserving my squirrels. I flip through Peeta’s family recipe book until I find the newly added recipe for squirrel stew under his father’s name. I follow it carefully, checking each step several times before moving on to the next. As I watch the clock tick closer and closer to dinner time, I realize that I will have to wake Peeta up if we’re going to have any chance to talk before Haymitch arrives.

I sit on the edge of the couch, gently running my hand up and down his arm.

“Peeta,” I whisper. It only takes a few seconds before he’s all bleary eyes and goofy grin.

“Hey,” he says, stifling a yawn.

“Sorry to wake you, but I wanted to finish that conversation before Haymitch gets here,” I say.

“Good, yeah I want that too,” he says quickly, pulling himself to sit up and leaving room for me to scoot next to him. “Let’s see, where did we leave off?” he asks.

“I believe I had just said that I don’t want to go back to being friends,” I say impishly.

“Right,” he smiles. “So…what do you want?” he asks again.

And then I kiss him. Finally, I think, as my hands reach up to cup his face, to pull him as close as I can to me. He kisses me back with equal fervor. It’s the first kiss we’ve ever had that’s just ours. For a few moments, there is nothing in the world except Peeta’s lips against mine. Eventually, he’s the first to pull away, pressing his forehead to mine as we catch our breath.

“As appreciated as that was, it’s not exactly an answer,” he says. 

I hesitate a second, stealing my nerve. “I think I want you to be my…boyfriend?” I say, the last word so foreign in my mouth. 

“You think?” He raises his eyebrows.

“I know,” I clarify. “The word just feels small in comparison to everything you are to me.”

“You want to be with me, for real?” he asks.

“For real,” I confirm.

“Then that doesn’t feel small,” he whispers.

This time it’s Peeta who initiates the next kiss. I snake my hands through his hair, down his neck, across his back. I can’t get enough of him, I will never have enough of him. He matches my desperation, pulling each other into something deeper and truer than every kiss that came before this. We’re so lost in each other that I hardly register the front door opening.

Haymitch clears his throat from the other side of the room and we pull apart in surprise.

“Well, shit,” Haymitch says, “Who’s threatening our lives this time?”

In one fell swoop I snag a pillow from behind me and hurl it as hard as I can at Haymitch. He dodges the attack easily and I just glare at him. Peeta, seemingly unflappable for the time being, just laughs. He rises from the couch and offers me his hand to pull me to my feet.

“Dinner isn’t ready yet,” Peeta tells Haymitch as he places the pillow back in its rightful place. “I’d apologize, but I’m not all that sorry at the moment,” he adds with a smirk in my direction.

“I made stew already, it’s on the stove” I say. Both of their heads snap towards me; Peeta looks surprised, Haymitch looks appalled.

“Oh, so you’re the one threatening our lives?” Haymitch asks me.

“Hey, watch it! That’s my girlfriend you’re talking to,” says Peeta protectively.

Even after just discussing it, the word catches me off guard. Haymitch and I wear matching expressions of surprise with our eyebrows hiked up. Peeta looks between the pair of us.

“Right?” he adds anxiously to me.

“Right,” I confirm, biting back a laugh.

“I’ll go check the stew,” Peeta mutters, now slightly embarrassed as he pads into the kitchen.

“That’ll take some getting used to,” I say under my breath to Haymitch. He gives me a funny little smile. “What?” I ask defensively.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m just thinking I’d better go grab a bottle if the two of you are going to be this nauseating all night.” He claps me on the back as he leaves to go back to his house.

I join Peeta in the kitchen, wrapping my arms around his waist from the side as he stirs the stew.

“Did Haymitch just leave?” he asks.

“Went to grab a bottle,” I mumble into his shoulder.

“Ah,” he says. He replaces the lid on the pot then drapes an arm around me. “Sorry, should I not have said that in front of him?” he asks quietly.

“It’s okay. I mean, he walked in on us kissing, so it’s not like we would’ve been able to keep it from him anyway,” I say

“Still, I guess we didn’t really get a chance to discuss how…public this is,” he says.

“I mean, I’m not about to call in the camera crews. But we don’t need to hide anything either,” I tell him. 

“Works for me,” he says with a laugh.

He peppers me with more kisses until Haymitch walks back in and we take our spots at the table. Peeta and I try not to be too nauseating for Haymitch’s sake, but it’s still so new that it’s hard to resist each other. I hold Peeta’s hand under the table, and he gives me this adorable little grin every time his eyes catch mine. In between all the mushiness, we fill Haymitch in on the information from the meeting. 

“So when will you start on that bakery of yours?” Haymitch asks Peeta.

“Next week,” he answers. I raise my eyebrows, realizing we haven’t had a chance to catch up on what he learned about opening shops. “Well, it’ll officially get started next week but it’ll be a while before any shops break ground.” he clarifies. “Now that they know the interest level they need to assign all the land and sort out the process for applying for loans. But since I have the land and I’m not taking out a loan, I should be able to get started pretty quickly.”

“Will you be building it yourself?” I ask.

“No, I’ll probably help with the construction but they’re putting together teams of people who actually know what they’re doing. The Capitol’s paying pretty well for construction jobs, apparently.”

When we tell Haymitch about the memorial, he takes a long pull from his bottle. 

“They asked me the other day if I could help with that. Gave ‘em a list of names of the ones I mentored. Effie’s seeing if she can find the rest.” Another long drink. “They’re doing it on the fourth?”

“Apparently,” I answer. 

A chill runs through the room. We three happy little victors all know what that day really means better than anyone else. We can only hope it’s just a memorial.

Haymitch drains the rest of his bottle. “I’ll leave you two to the rest of your night,” he says, rising to leave. “Just be sure to close that damn window if you–”

“Goodnight, Haymitch!” Peeta says loudly over him. 

Peeta walks Haymitch to the door while I gather up the dishes. When he returns he’s got a pink tinge across his cheeks, but he just shakes his head at my questioning look. We go up to bed once the dishes are cleaned, both tired from a very full day.

Peeta and I brush our teeth side by side, then he leans down to give me a minty kiss before leaving to let me finish getting ready for bed. As I’m about to join him in the bedroom, I suddenly remember those pills I’m supposed to be taking every day now.

It hits me all at once just how real this is. Peeta is my boyfriend and I’m about to take a pill to prevent pregnancy then get in bed with him. I think somewhere deep down the idea of it is kind of thrilling, but mostly I just feel panicked. I know we’ve done everything out of order, but it still feels too soon for that.

When I leave the bathroom Peeta’s already in bed, sitting up against the headboard waiting for me. I end up sort of hovering next to the bed, as If I’ve forgotten how to lay down like a normal person.

“What’s wrong?” Peeta asks.

“I’ve never shared a bed with a boyfriend before,” I say quietly. It feels pathetic once I’ve said the thought out loud.

“Well you’ve shared a bed with a fake fiancé and a best friend, and considering that both of those were me I don’t see the problem,” Peeta says, amused.

“It’s different,” I say.

“How?”

“There’s different…implications to sleeping together when it’s real,” I mutter, “Different expectations…”

Peeta gives me a nod of understanding and then a reassuring smile. He pulls back the covers and pats my side of the bed, gently coaxing me to relax once again. I climb in next to him, automatically burrowing into his chest the way I do every night. He leans down and kisses my hairline.

“Well, I’m sorry to say I think the implications were already established when I told the whole world that I got you pregnant,” he says. I laugh as I look up to see the apologetic grimace on his face.

“But as far as expectations go…” He shrugs. “I don’t have any expectations.”

“None?” I ask skeptically.

“Well, I expect that we’ll still spend most of our nights curled up just like this. And that I’ll always wake up before you because you are simply not made for baker’s hours,” he says with a chuckle. “And I expect that every single morning, for as long as you’ll have me, I’ll look at you while you sleep and wonder to myself how I ever got lucky enough to be the one who gets to hold you.”

He strokes back a loose strand of hair from my forehead and cups his hand on my cheek. I press a kiss into his palm as I lean into his touch.

“Anything beyond that…we’ll get there when we get there. I’m in no rush,” he says.

“But you want to, don’t you?” I ask.

“When we’re ready,” he says noncommittally

“Are you ready?” I press.

“I’m…I’m ready when you are. But take your time,” he says earnestly.

“I hate that you always have to wait for me,” I mutter.

“I don’t see it that way,” he says with a frown. “And even if I did, you are always,” he kisses my forehead, “always,” my cheek, “always worth the wait,” and finally my lips.

Chapter Text

I could get used to this . 

It’s the first thought in my mind as I wake up; slowly, though, because I’m in no rush to leave this moment. I’m sprawled across Peeta’s chest with his heartbeat steady in my ear and his arms wrapped firmly around me, one hand lightly playing with my braid. Even though it was like this before, it’s nice to be able to linger in it longer now.

“I know you’re awake,” Peeta whispers in a sing-song tone.

“I can still go back to sleep,” I whisper back, mimicking him.

“Well you’re the one who asked me to wake you before I get out of bed,” he reminds me.

“You can still go back to sleep, too,” I mumble, wriggling up so I can hide my face in his neck.

“I have to go meet Thom about the bakery construction today, remember?” he says.

I groan, “It’s so early.”

He starts peppering my forehead–the only part of me he can really reach with my face still buried in his neck–with kisses. It’s not enough, though, and finally my desire to fall back asleep is overthrown by my desire to kiss Peeta Mellark. He knows what I want as soon as I tilt my face up towards his, and it only takes a second for him to press his lips to mine.

Over the past week, Peeta and I have become very well acquainted with kissing each other again. In some ways it’s familiar, but in many ways it’s not. His were the first lips I ever kissed, and the only ones that ever really meant anything to me. We kissed thousands of times before, but those kisses were different, though. They were always for a camera, for a crowd. For our survival.

Now that it’s real, and just for us, I’m constantly surprised by how different it feels to kiss him. Before last week, I could count on one hand the times I’d really felt something while kissing him. Now I’ve lost track. Each kiss stirs something inside of me; it’s warm, and curious, and so very good.

I start to appreciate all the different kinds of kisses, too. The light, languid good morning kisses, like the one we’re occupied with now. Soft see-you-soon pecks. But my favorites are the ones that happen for no reason at all. Some of them are quick, as if we simply need to remind ourselves that what we have now is new and right and real. Others we get lost in, and I find myself pressed against a wall in the kitchen or tangled up with Peeta on the couch for quite a while.

“I should…really…get moving,” Peeta mumbles between kisses.

“What’s stopping you?” I say teasingly as I drag my lips across his jawline, then down his neck. Peeta lets out a moan that seems to reverberate all the way through my body. I freeze. 

That’s new.

Peeta uses my pause as his chance to extract himself from our embrace. I scowl at him but he kisses me one more time to make up for his absence. 

“If I want to have time to make us breakfast before I leave, I need to get going now,” he says apologetically.

“Fine,” I sigh, curling into the warm indent from his body while he sits up to attach his prosthetic. “Wake me up when it’s time to eat.”

I don’t really fall back asleep, though. Not all the way at least. I doze as I hear the shower turn on, then off a few minutes later. I crack half an eye open when I hear Peeta come out of the bathroom, then both eyes fly open when I see him standing at our dresser with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

I swallow hard while I watch the muscles in his back as he rummages through the drawers for clothes. My eyes trace his patchwork of skin, as if I’ve been instructed to memorize each scar, burn, and skin graft charted between the patches of untainted pale skin. I become fixated on the droplets of water still clinging to his skin from the shower, and find myself with the insane urge to lick each of them off of him.

I feel that thing again, the hunger I’ve felt only once before. It settles itself low in my belly, where I know no food will ever satisfy. I never realized it was possible to feel this way without even touching him. 

When he turns around to look at me and catches me staring at him, he gives me a lopsided grin. I bury my face further into his pillow to partially hide my blush. 

“Sorry,” he says, still smirking, “you had me so distracted there that I forgot to grab my clothes.”

Distracted. That makes two of us.

“When will you be back?” I ask with an embarrassingly longing edge to my voice.

“Should be around noon,” he says. He goes on to explain something about Thom and sketches but I can’t say I hear most of it. There’s a faint buzzing in my head as my eyes rake over the hard lines of his abdomen and his hips where they disappear beneath the towel…

“Katniss?” he jolts me from my reverie.

“Hm?” I hum.

“I asked what you’re hungry for,” he says, looking at me with a mix of amusement and confusion.

Well isn’t that just the question of the day.

“Surprise me,” I mumble, face now fully hidden in his pillow. I hear him chuckle as he leaves the room.

After Peeta leaves for the morning, I spend a few hours in the woods, loading up my game bag and trying to suppress all thoughts about Peeta in his towel to the back of my mind.

When I’m done in the woods I decide to stop by the new market that’s been started in the square. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this is far better than I had imagined. It gives me a pang of nostalgia for my days in the Hob. Stalls and tables have been set up around the square, with people bustling between them making their trades. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed this until it was in front of me. 

As my eyes roam around looking for familiar faces or interesting booths, instead they land on a very handsome blonde boy across the square. He’s nowhere near the bakery, though. Peeta’s standing with Thom and two other unfamiliar men in the spot where I think the general store used to be, although it’s hard to remember with no frame of reference.

He gives me a soft smile when his eyes meet mine. I tilt my head in confusion as a response. He says something to Thom then starts walking my way, so I meet him in the middle.

“You’re in the wrong spot for the bakery,” I say. Peeta chuckles.

“I told you that after my meeting with Thom I was going to help do some sketches for the other shops that are set to open first. I knew you weren’t listening to me this morning,” he admonishes lightly.

I bite my lip, a little embarrassed. But then I shrug it off. “Well that’s entirely your fault,” I tell him. “You need to learn not to give me important information while you’re shirtless.”

Peeta’s face cycles through several expressions before landing on a kind of pleased confusion.

“Noted,” he says, smirking.

He glances over his shoulder to the spot where he just was. “I should probably head back. Think you’ll still be here at noon?”

“Probably not, I was just going to drop some game off for Sae then go make lunch.”

“I’ll meet you back at the house then. See you soon,” he says, leaning down and giving me a kiss.

When I turn my attention back to the market, I find two familiar faces with tables set up next to each other. The smug look on Sae’s face and huge grin on Delly’s tell me that Peeta and I didn’t go unnoticed.

“Is this the troublemaker side of the market?” I ask.

“If it was, you’d fit right in Mockingjay,” Sae says.

I try to avoid making eye contact and ignore both of their expressions by pretending to peruse their tables. Sae, predictably, has a huge pot of stew. Delly’s table is a mystery though. It’s a bizarre collection of odds and ends, with seemingly no connection.

“Don’t think we’re about to ignore that kiss we just saw,” Sae finally says to me.

“Careful, Sae, she’ll probably try to convince you they’re still just friends, ” Delly teases.

“Friends, my ass. What’s it been…two months since the boy slept at his own house?” Sae asks.

I glare between the pair of them. “Fine. Maybe we’ve decided that we’re not just friends anymore. But don’t go spreading it around,” I add with a pointed look to Delly, “the last thing we need is for the news to reach the Capitol somehow. Plutarch would never leave us alone again.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Delly says, clearly delighted at the confirmation of Peeta’s and my relationship.

“Best we keep it under wraps, anyway,” Sae says. “It might break my poor May Belle’s heart to learn the baker’s off the menu”

“I might be willing to share his affections with May Belle,” I say.

Sae shakes her head. “She needs to learn to pick on someone her own size. Anyways, now that the Hawthornes moved in with us I think she’s got her eye on one of the boys.”

“Watch her with that one. I hear those Hawthorne boys are more trouble than they’re worth,” I say quietly.

“Well I’ll send her your way if she needs a cautionary tale,” Sae says with a sad smile.

I pull several rabbits out of my game bag and drop them on Sae’s table.

“What d’ya want for them?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Nah, I’m back in business now so I’m not taking handouts,” she says sternly.

“Sae, you single-handedly kept me alive for a while there. Take the damn rabbits,” I tell her.

“Fine, but in a month’s time we’ll call it even and I expect you to bring back your best hagglin’ efforts,” she concedes.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In the meantime, could ya teach smiley over there how to barter?” Sae adds in a dramatic whisper, “She don’t have the money you have to be giving things away at the rate she is”

“Hey, I heard that!” Delly says indignantly.

I laugh, turning my attention back to Delly’s mismatched table. She’s got everything from clothes to dishware to a bizarre contraption that looks like a bike with only one wheel. My breath catches as I recognize one of Prim’s shirts and trace a finger over it. Delly also has a clipboard with a list of District Twelve residents and specific items they’re looking for. 

“You’re not reopening the shoe shop then?” I ask Delly.

“No, between you and me I never had much passion for shoes. I mean, I would’ve taken over the shop if I had to, but now that we have so many more opportunities I’d rather do something else,” she says.

“What do you think you want to do?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. A few people are planning to start a garden near the old entrance to the mines, I think I’ll work on that with them,” she says cheerfully, “For now I’m just helping wherever I can. Trading for things others need.”

“Well it looks like I’ll have some time on my hands once Peeta starts construction, so maybe I can come help train you up on trading decorum,” I tell her.

As I leave Sae and Delly, I turn to find more familiar faces. Hazelle is wandering around the market, hand-in-hand with Posy, with a bit of a distant look in her eyes.

“Hi, Hazelle,” I say as I approach her.

“Oh, hi, Katniss,” she responds, snapping back to reality a bit.

“What are you up to today?” I ask.

“The boys offered to clean Haymitch’s house so I could find some work. I’m just…having a little trouble figuring out my next move,” she says slowly.

Delly had marveled at the fact that we have so many more opportunities now, but from the look on Hazelle’s face I can tell this prospect is more daunting than exciting. Hazelle was always able to get by with doing others’ laundry and Gale’s hunting. But now I feel pretty certain that Gale sends a portion of his fancy new salary directly to her and the kids, and I doubt she wants to go back to scrubbing her fingers raw like she used to. I wonder if she’s had a moment to herself since returning to Twelve to work out what this new world means for her.

“Do you want me to take Posy for a while so you can get your bearings?” I ask quietly.

Hazelle looks both guilty and relieved. “Would you mind?” she asks.

“Not at all. I have way too much time on my hands,” I say with a shrug, “And Peeta will be back around lunch time, between the two of us we can probably manage one little girl.”

Something crosses her face at the mention of Peeta, but it’s hard to read.

“Is Peeta…doing better?” she asks tactfully.

“Much better, practically his old self again.” I drop my voice back to a whisper, “I promise he’s completely safe. I’d never let anything happen to Posy.”

I hadn’t meant it as a dig at Gale, but once the words are out there I can tell we both register the weight of them.

“I know you wouldn’t,” she says tenderly, pinching my cheek lightly. “Posy, how would you like to spend some time with Katniss at her house?”

Back at my house, I realize I have very little idea how I’m going to entertain a six-year-old.

“Posy, what do you like to do all day?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I just follow around the boys or Mama. Sometimes I play with my friend May Belle. She has a baby doll and she shares with me!”

“Oh! Why don’t we make a doll for you, too?” I say, “Then you and May Belle can play babies together.”

Posy is delighted at the prospect of getting her own doll and happily follows me around the house as I gather supplies. I grab a few of Peeta’s socks, since they’re bigger than mine, in hopes that maybe we can make a few more dolls. But I end up cutting through all of them just trying to get one even close to right. Peeta made this look so easy. 

“Katniss, you’re not very good at this,” says Posy bluntly.

I let out a groan. “I know, I’m sorry! Come on, let’s make some lunch. Peeta will be here soon and he can show me how to make them again.”

I plop Posy onto the counter next to me while I toast some cheese sandwiches for the three of us. I’m so used to quiet little May Belle that it’s jarring to hear how much Posy speaks. She talks incessantly about everything on her little mind, it’s a little overwhelming.

It’s not long before I hear the front door and familiar clomp of Peeta’s feet down the hallway. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, cocking his head at the shredded socks littering the table. 

“What happened here?” Peeta asks, amused.

“I owe you some new socks,” I say sheepishly.

“She’s really bad at making dolls!” Posy chimes in.

Peeta just about jumps out of his skin at the sound of her voice, I now realize she’s pretty much concealed behind me from the angle he’s standing. He grips the back of the nearest chair, clearly trying to breathe his way through a flashback from the startle. He recovers quickly though, and I’ve never been more grateful for Dr. Aurelius and his coping mechanisms.

“Well, hi there,” he says, returning to his usual charm, “I’m Peeta.”

“I know. You used to kiss Katniss on TV. Then my brother called you lots of bad words I’m not allowed to say,” Posy says cheerfully.

I laugh as Peeta gives me a bewildered look that clearly says who is this?

“Do you remember Posy Hawthorne?” I ask him, still laughing.

“Oh, of course! You’ve gotten so big I didn’t recognize you,” he says. “It’s nice to see you again, Posy.”

“Why don’t the two of you clear up the sock massacre so we can eat?” I say as I lift Posy off the counter.

When the sock scraps are cleared up, Posy takes a seat at the table while Peeta reaches up in the cabinet next to me to grab plates and cups. Just for a moment, he places a hand on my lower back, sending a delightful chill down my spine.

“I missed you today,” he whispers in my ear. Then he leans down and places a kiss on my lips. It’s incredibly chaste, compared to most of our kisses recently, but still it’s enough for Posy to notice and say “Ooooh'' from her seat.

“You better be careful, she’s friends with May Belle,” I whisper admonishingly. “Although Sae thinks she’s moved on to one of the Hawthorne boys.”

Peeta makes a dramatic gesture like he’s been stabbed in the gut. “I lost another girl to a Hawthorne?”

I scowl at him. “Last I checked, I’m all yours.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he says with a tender smile.

After lunch Peeta makes Posy a proper baby doll, and I let her pick a ribbon from Prim’s things to tie around the baby’s head to match May Belle’s doll. Soon after that Buttercup makes an appearance and Posy begs to play crazy cat with him.

“This game is so mean!” Peeta laughs after a few minutes of me mercilessly taunting the stupid cat with a flashlight. I surprise Peeta by abruptly kissing him on the lips.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Just because I can,” I say, remembering the last time I played this game and how grateful I am to have him back.

When Buttercup abandons the game we’re once again left trying to figure out what to do with a six year old. I’m about to suggest hide and seek, but Peeta comes to the rescue with a much better idea. Posy is thrilled when he mentions painting, so he offers to bring out some paints for her to play with.

It’s such a beautiful day that we decide to take the painting outside. Posy and I spread an old sheet out on the lawn while Peeta gathers up some supplies.

“Posy, did you know Peeta’s the best painter in all of Panem?” I tell her as Peeta returns within earshot.

“I don’t know about that,” he says.

“It’s true,” I say to Posy, ignoring Peeta’s protests. “He can paint anything .”

“You know what, let's test if she’s right, Posy,” Peeta says. “How about you tell me something to paint, and we’ll keep it a secret from Katniss and see if she can guess it?”

Posy thinks for a moment then leans over to whisper her idea in Peeta’s ear. A smile creeps across his face.

“Are you sure?” She nods. “Well I could paint that in my sleep. I actually started a painting like that a few days ago, could I go get that and finish it?” She nods again.

Peeta returns with a large canvas that he holds secretively out of view, as well as a smaller canvas and two short easels. 

“I don’t think it’s fair for Katniss to miss out on the fun. You should give Katniss a secret idea to paint for me to guess, too,” Peeta tells Posy.

Her face lights up and she immediately runs over to whisper in my ear, “You should paint a picture of Peeta, because you love him.”

“Well, hard to argue with that logic,” I say with a smirk. “Although I have this sneaking suspicion that you gave me and Peeta very similar ideas.” Posy giggles conspiratorially.

“What are you going to paint, Posy?” Peeta asks as he starts getting her set up with several sheets of paper and an assortment of brushes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never painted before,” she says with a little shrug.

“Maybe you could start by painting someone you love, too,” I suggest.

For a moment Peeta’s eyes snap up to mine, searching my face for something. Then he clears whatever he’s thinking with a little shake of his head and goes back to handing Posy everything she needs.

“My family!” Posy decides excitedly.

“I bet your mama will love that,” I tell her.

Peeta mixes up some colors for Posy–he’s awfully fast at making the right shades for the hair, skin, and eye colors I share with the Hawthorne family–but I’m left to fend for myself. I remember enough of the basics of color mixing from Peeta’s baking lesson to get a blue that’s nearly the shade of his eyes. But it takes a long time to make something even close to his skin color, and I’ll have to settle for letting his hair be more yellow than blonde.

Posy chatters on while we all paint. She starts with a rather simple painting of the faces of her family, but she ends up filling at least five sheets of paper with pictures of anything that comes to her mind.

I, on the other hand, am struggling to salvage my one painting. It seems like everything I do just makes it worse. The face started okay, except the eyes are way too big and I can’t even pretend I know how to paint a nose. Then the hair looks more like a lumpy yellow hat on his head. I try to paint him in the outfit he wore on our date, since I already have the blue for his shirt, but the tan pants need to be gone over a second time. The first color I mixed was so light it looked like he wasn’t wearing pants at all, the second color is only a slight improvement.

In the end, I give up trying to make it look better and just start adding details based on the things I love most about him. A loaf of bread in his hand because he’s generous. Dandelions near his feet–one flesh-toned and one metal-gray–because he gives me hope. I try to add his eyelashes since they were the first part of him I was truly attracted to, but they end up looking like pale yellow worms coming out of his eyes.

“Well, what do we have here?” Hazelle asks, coming up from behind me.

“Mama look I painted!” Posy says, holding up the picture of the five floating Hawthorne heads. “This is our family,” she says proudly.

“I can see that,” Hazelle says enthusiastically, “you did a great job! We’ll have to find somewhere special for this.”

“How’d your day go?” I ask Hazelle. I find myself turning my easel away from her so she doesn’t get a good look at how bad my painting is.

“Very well, I feel like I’ve gotten a better lay of the land again now. Thank you for watching her, did she give you any trouble?” she asks.

“None at all, although I’m pretty sure she spoke more words today than I have all year,” I tell her. 

Hazelle laughs and ruffles Posy’s hair. “Yeah, that’s Posy for you. Can you tell Katniss and Peeta thank you?” she says to Posy.

“Thank y–WAIT!” Posy yells suddenly. “You have to guess the paintings!”

“Oh, I’m still putting some finishing touches on this, but why don’t you take a peek and then we’ll tell you next time we see you if we were able to guess them,” Peeta tells her. She runs around to see his painting. “What do you think, will she be able to guess it?” Peeta asks. Posy gives an impressed nod and a giggle, then runs back to hold Hazelle’s hand and waves goodbye to us.

Peeta adds the final details to his painting and I revel in the chance to watch that special look his face takes on while he paints. Every so often his eyes flick up towards me, though, and the concentration is replaced with a soft smile.

“Okay, I’m done but this needs to dry a little more. I’m dying to see your painting and why you were so determined to hide it from Hazelle,” Peeta says.

“Oh, I just didn’t want to embarrass you,” I say in a mock serious tone. “You’re the painter, we can’t have you shown up by your girlfriend on her first try.”

Peeta rolls his eyes at me. “Let’s see it, then.”

When I turn the painting around for him to see, Peeta makes a noise that’s something like a gasp and a laugh stuck in the back of his throat. 

“Oh, wow, Katniss…” says Peeta slowly. I can see him searching for something nice to say about it. “That’s really…”

“Awful?” I supply.

“No! No, it’s really good for your first attempt!” he says encouragingly.

“Peeta, the six year old painted better than this,” I say flatly. Then I start to laugh. “This is the worst painting in the entire world.”

“It’s…yeah, it’s pretty bad,” he admits, finally joining me in my laughter.

It bubbles into that same uncontrollable laughter from that first day with the pranks. We keep setting each other off in waves, and soon we’ve both got tears in our eyes from laughing so hard.

“What am I supposed to be holding?” Peeta wheezes.

“It’s clearly a loaf of bread!” I say indignantly.

Another wave of laughter overtakes him. “Katniss, that’s definitely not what it looks like.” 

I frown at it for a second, then my eyes go wide with horror at the realization. Between the angle it's being held at in front of him and my poor attempts at color mixing, it kind of looks like this cartoonish version of Peeta is holding his…

“Oh my god!” I yelp as I toss the canvas at Peeta. His laughter subsides to chuckles as he picks up the painting.

“I’ve got to say, I’m relieved to hear it’s bread. I was afraid you were going to be really disappointed…” he trails off, giving an embarrassed shake of his head. 

He starts examining the painting up close to avoid meeting my eyes. Then he lets out a loud burst of laughter and doubles over in stitches.

“I just saw the eyelashes!” he manages to choke out between gasps of air. This sends me into another fit of laughter myself, and the cycle repeats itself again for several minutes.

“Enough!” I exclaim, stomach aching from so much laughter. “I showed you mine, now you have to show me yours.”

“Looks like I already showed you mine,” he says suggestively, pointing at the loaf of bread.

“Oh shut up !” I yell, but there’s no real malice to my voice. Instead, I’m desperately trying to fight off another round of giggles.

When we’ve both finally pulled ourselves together, Peeta turns his canvas around to show me. It takes my breath away, but this time out of awe rather than laughter.

“Oh, Peeta…” I whisper. He has captured, in painstaking realism, that moment when we arrived at the lake on my birthday. I recognize it by the way I’m looking over my shoulder, arm outstretched, holding his hand just outside of the frame.

So beautiful, Peeta had whispered. I can see now that he didn’t mean the lake. In fact, the lake and surrounding forest are nothing but a blur in the background. It’s like I’m seeing it exactly through Peeta’s eyes, and clearly all Peeta saw was me.

Where the surroundings are blurred, his rendering of me is so lifelike it could be a photograph. And he’s taken great care to capture every detail. The dandelion still tucked behind my ear, with my braid thrown effortlessly over my shoulder. The red plaid of his shirt I borrowed tied around my waist, just peeking up from the bottom of the painting. Even the scars up the back of my arm have been painted with such care and precision it almost makes me want to cry.

“What do you think?” he asks quietly.

“I hate it,” I say, still staring dumbfounded at the painting.

“Do you really?” he asks. There’s a playful exasperation in his voice, but enough of an edge that I can tell he’s really worried that I mean it.

I shake my head at him. “It’s beautiful, Peeta. It just…looks nothing like me.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, frowning.

“It’s too beautiful,” I say.

“This is exactly how I see you,” he says earnestly.

“Well, then, you see me as too beautiful,” I say.

He laughs. “Fair enough, I’ve always had that weakness for beauty when it comes to you.”

I crawl across the blanket to him, landing as close as I can be without being in his lap. I take his face between both my hands.

“I may be biased as the subject of the painting, but this is your best work yet,” I tell him.

Then I kiss him. Slowly, at first, but soon the painting is set aside and his arms are wrapping tight around my waist as we’re both deepening the kiss. My fingers find his hair, as they always do, and he moves one hand to cup my jawline and pull me closer to him. I want to push him to the ground, to lay with him right here in the grass, to kiss him until my lips are numb.

“Will you two knock it off?” Haymitch shouts from across the lawn. “You’ve both got perfectly good houses, there’s no reason I should have to see this in my own front yard!”

“Technically this is my front yard,” I yell back, “so fuck off!”

Haymitch flips me off before heading back into his house.

“You two have such a special relationship,” Peeta muses. I laugh.

My stomach rumbles loud enough for Peeta to hear, and he takes that as his cue to start packing up his art supplies.

“I don’t want to go inside yet, it’s too nice out,” I complain. 

“Picnic dinner?” Peeta suggests.

“Good idea, but let's go to the backyard. Away from prying eyes,” I say, shooting a look towards Haymitch’s house.

I begin pulling out whatever I can find for dinner while Peeta rinses off his brushes and deposits his masterpiece and my monstrosity in his studio. I lay out a blanket and our hodge-podge meal on the back porch. Peeta joins me soon after. 

We make a meal out of cheese and crackers and turkey and fruit. We fill each other in on our days. I tell him about Sae and Delly and the funny things Posy said before he got home. He tells me about the five businesses slated to open first–the bakery, a general store, a pharmacy, a butcher, and a store specializing in farming and gardening–and his schedule for the bakery construction–six in the morning until noon, Monday through Friday, starting next week.

One added perk about deciding to eat in the backyard is that we have a completely unobstructed view of the sunset. Peeta’s perfectly content to stay outside for a while and watch the shifting colors in the sky, and I’m perfectly content to watch the way the soft orange light dances across his face. In this moment, it’s my favorite color, too.

“I missed you today, too,” I tell him as I lean into him. His warm, steady arm wraps around my waist and he kisses my head.

“It’ll be strange when the bakery opens and I can’t be with you all day. I’ve really gotten used to that these past months,” he says a little sadly.

“We’ll just have to make the hours we have together count even more,” I say.

It was probably never sustainable that Peeta and I could always spend all our time together. I’m sure eventually we’d get bored of each other that way, even if we never have. Still, these past months have been a gift. The chance to grieve and grow and heal with Peeta, to cry together and laugh until we can’t breathe. To be able to trust him, to love him. It’s been a joy unlike anything I’ve experienced in my life, especially coming from a place where I thought joy would never be possible again.

“Maybe we could spend some of our precious time teaching you how to bake so you can join me?” Peeta suggests.

I grimace. “I have a feeling my patience for baking is similar to my tolerance for baker’s hours,” I say.

“Nonexistent?” Peeta asks.

“Exactly,” I laugh, “But I’ll come buy cheese buns everyday if it means I can spend a little extra time with you.”

“I’d like that very much,” Peeta says with a soft smile.

He tilts my chin up to face him and we pick up where we left off in the front yard. We keep kissing at an unhurried pace until the sun has fully set and the nighttime chill has set in. When Peeta suggests we move to the couch, the intensity suddenly changes. We clumsily fumble our way towards the living room, no longer leisurely about our kisses. We’re desperate and frenzied. Hungry.

By the time I’m straddling his lap on the couch, we both know where this night is heading. At least, I know where I’d like it to go, and I can feel by the position I’m in that Peeta wants the same thing. My hands find their way under his shirt, seeking some sort of relief from this feeling that’s been building within me all day. Peeta moans my name as my fingers trace over his abdomen, and I know this alone won’t be enough to find relief. I need more of him, all of him. Now.

“We should…go…up to bed,” I pant as Peeta’s pressing needy kisses all over my neck.

He pulls back with an almost crazed look in his eyes. 

“Are you tired?” he asks, bewildered.

“No, I’m wide awake,” I say with a soft smile. 

“Then why…” he frowns. Then he understands. He raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and I give him a little nod. “Katniss, are you sure?” he whispers.

“I’m sure,” I say, taking his face in between my hands. He moves slightly below me, and the shift of his hips causes a jolt to run through me that solidifies my decision. “Peeta, I need you,” I breathe out.

A mischievous grin grows on his face as he hooks his hands under my thighs. Then, before I can realize what he’s about to do, Peeta stands up with me still wrapped around him. He carries me as we laugh and kiss our way up the stairs. When he gently deposits me onto our bed, I pull his shirt off of him before dragging him down to lay on top of me.

I never had much time in my life to fantasize about the perfect first time the way I know other girls my age did. But I have to imagine this is just about as good as it gets. Yes, at moments it’s awkward, and we both admit pretty early on that we’re similarly inexperienced. But despite all that, mostly it’s just tender and loving and–after the initial twinge of pain–it’s so good.

And it’s Peeta. As I hold him against me, as close as we can physically get, I know that it was always going to be him. Only Peeta can make me feel safe and loved like this. I can tell he’s nervous, but even as I reassure him I find that I’m not nervous at all. Because he’s gentle and he’s steady and he’s mine. Because I trust him, wholeheartedly. Because I love him.

After, we’re laying side by side, face to face. With several inches of space between us, not touching at all. It’s such a bizarre contrast to what we were just doing, with so much contact. We stare at each other with wide eyes, as if we’re each waiting to see what the other will do next.

“Well, that was fun,” I finally whisper. 

And with that, the tension is broken. We both break into giddy, wonderful laughter. Peeta runs his hand along my bare hip to pull me closer to him once more, and I lace my fingers through the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck.

“That was very fun,” Peeta agrees. “And just imagine how good it’ll be when we actually know what we’re doing.”

I laugh a little, but the more I consider his words the less I agree. Objectively, I know he’s right. But in this moment I can’t fathom anything better than what just happened, than what I have in my arms right now.

“I don’t know, Peeta. Maybe we’re just so in love that we just got it perfect on the first try,” I say before pulling his lips to mine.

Soon we’re so caught up again that I’m trying to work through my limited knowledge to determine if we’re able to go another round so soon. Then suddenly, Peeta freezes against me. I pull away, confused, only to find him staring at me so tenderly it makes my heart melt. 

“You love me,” he whispers, “real or not real?”

“Real,” I tell him. 

His smile is bright enough to light up our dark bedroom, and I can’t help but notice the tears that form in the corners of his eyes.

“I love you, too,” he says, with a little laugh of disbelief. “But you already knew that.”

“It’s still very nice to hear,” I say, leaning in to smile against his lips. 

We give each other a few happy, lazy kisses before I pull back with a contented sigh.

“ Now I’m tired,” I admit.

“Me too,” Peeta says with a little yawn. “Guess we wore each other out.”

He shifts onto his back so I can curl into his chest. Even though this is how we fall asleep every night, it’s different without anything between us. Just his skin against mine.

We say our goodnights once we’re settled in. Peeta lightly runs his nails up and down my back, and I feel my eyelids start to grow heavy immediately. The last thing I register before sleep completely pulls me under is Peeta whispering, “I love you, Katniss Everdeen.”

Yes, I could definitely get used to this.

Chapter Text

The first goose

On the last day of March, I find myself heading back from the woods with a very good haul and an even better mood. Over the past week my stamina has been increasing and I’ve been able to spend more and more time hunting. Today my time was rewarded with two rabbits, a turkey, and a few squirrels for Peeta. I could’ve gotten more, but these days I’m careful not to shoot anything more than necessary. Still, Sae will take anything that’s in excess of what Peeta and I need, and the least I can do is bring her fresh game after she’s been feeding me these past months.

After finding a patch of early strawberries, I made a mental note to add Madge to our growing list of people to add to our book. The supplies to begin the book will be arriving on today’s train, and I’m itching to get started on it. Since pitching the idea to Peeta and Dr. Aurelius, I’ve been overwhelmed with the number of memories that will flood my brain at the slightest of things. So far Peeta and I have just started a list of people we want to include, and occasionally we’ll add a word to help us remember a particular memory, but I’m anxious to get the memories out of my head and onto paper as soon as we can.

When I enter the Village, I find Peeta walking towards me. I frown, as this is a departure from the pattern we’ve fallen into over the past week. Every morning, Peeta comes over and makes breakfast at my house, and we eat together before I head to the woods. After I’m done hunting, I meet Peeta at his house where he’s usually baking or painting or sketching. Sometimes I watch him paint. One time he gave me a palette and let me play around with mixing different colors because I needed something to do. More often than not, though, I just fall asleep on his couch and wake up with a blanket draped over me. 

We separate for our respective therapies, but on days without I stay at Peeta’s house until dinner. Peeta does the dishes every night, despite my protests that it’s my house and I’m the only one not cooking. He claims that I do enough by catching our food. I notice that he leaves all of the breakfast dishes until after dinner so he can stay longer in the evening, but I wouldn’t dare point that out to him.

“Where are you going?” I call out to him.

“Train station, you want to come?” he calls back as he closes the distance between us.

I weigh my options. Truthfully, I’m already exhausted, but by the time Peeta comes back it’ll be nearly time for my therapy call, after which I will certainly fall asleep today. All things considered, I’d much rather walk with Peeta now than spend most of the day without him.

“Sure, let me just drop this off,” I say, holding up my game bag.

We walk and talk about nothing in particular; How was the woods and what did you bake and did you see there were lights on in the ninth house last night ? At one point our hands brush together, and I choose to ignore the way it makes my heart pound out an irregular pattern. I guess I could hold his hand, that was something we did as friends, right? Still, maybe I ought to play it safe. To avoid confusing him.

When we get to the station, Peeta and I part ways momentarily to find our shipments. The box of art supplies is heavy but small enough for me to carry without a cart. Still, when I find Peeta again he immediately lifts the package out of my arms and drops it on top of one of his crates. The crate gives an all too familiar honk .

“No,” I groan, “not you too!” Haymitch’s geese, now contained in the pen that he and Peeta built between their two houses, are by far the worst of our new neighbors in Victor’s Village. They’re loud and smelly and Haymitch won’t let me eat any of them, which I consider the worst offense of them all. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not starting my own gaggle of geese. I’m just…I’m just messing with Haymitch a little,” he says hesitantly.

“Like a…prank?” I stare at him, unsure. I can’t reconcile the thought with kind, selfless, friendly Peeta.

“It’s harmless, don’t worry,” he says, a little defensively.

“I’m sure it is. I just didn’t think you were the type to play pranks , that’s all,” I say with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“I’m not really, but the idea came to me and it reminded me of something my brothers would do,” he says with a sad smile, “And it’s harmless, and so I decided that every so often I’m allowed to act my age.” 

“Fair enough,” I say with a soft laugh, “So how are you going to mess with Haymitch?”

“I’ll tell you as long as you don’t give it away,” Peeta says conspiratorially. 

“I’ll do my best,” I promise, “But you think I’m a terrible liar, real or not real?”

Peeta smirks a little. “Real, but I’ll tell you anyway since I might need a partner in deception. I’m just going to gradually increase the number of geese Haymitch has until he catches on.” 

“How many geese do you have in there?” I ask.

“Four. I think that’ll be enough to crack him,” he says with a smirk. 

I start laughing. “He’s going to think he’s losing his mind!”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” he says, shaking his head, “I bet he’ll catch on pretty fast, the real trick will be seeing how stubborn he’s willing to be.”

“In that case, you’d better be ready to order more geese,” I say.

– – – 

I like Mondays because I don’t have to keep myself occupied after therapy waiting for Peeta’s call to end. As soon as I finish my call with Dr. Aurelius, I let myself into Peeta’s house and throw myself across his couch. Between my extended time in the forest, the walk to and from the train station, and rehashing various traumas to Dr. Aurelius, I’m both physically and emotionally drained. I fall asleep before Peeta can even say hello.

I wake up tucked into my favorite of Peeta’s blankets, and notice a plate of cheese buns on the table in front of me. Peeta’s at his easel nearby, eyes concentrated on his painting.

“Well, hi there. Nice of you to join me,” he says without looking away from his work.

I smile at him apologetically as I sit up and grab the cheese buns, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders. 

“Did you do anything fun while I was out?” I ask.

“Not really, just unpacked my shipment and painted,” he says. “Oh, I put one goose in the pen already.”

“What did you do with the other three?” I ask.

“They’re in the shed out back. They’ve got plenty of food, they should be fine. I’m hoping if they make any noise it’ll just blend in with the ones already in the pen,” he says.

“Very smart strategy,” I say as I start working on the second cheese bun.

At dinner time, Peeta packs up his paints and we head to my place together. We encounter Haymitch, standing at the goose pen with a bag of feed in one hand and a bottle in the other.

“Looks like you got your shipment alright,” says Peeta conversationally.

“Yeah well I–” Haymitch narrows his eyes at the geese as if seeing them for the first time. His eyes dart around the pen, silently counting them. He blinks several times, frowns, counts them again, then shakes his head slightly and returns his attention to us. “I figured I better feed them up before I’m too far gone to remember,” he says slowly.

I’m lucky I had so many years of practice arranging my face into an emotionless mask, otherwise I would have already blown Peeta’s trick. Peeta, who’s a much better actor than I am, is maintaining an even expression as well. But I can see the tiniest of cracks in his facade, and somehow I know that if the two of us were to make eye contact right now it would be over for both of us. 

We bid our goodbyes to Haymitch and walk quickly towards my house. The second I shut the door behind us, Peeta and I burst out laughing. We laugh continuously for several minutes. Every time one of us starts to collect ourselves, the other sets them off and the process repeats itself. By the time we both get it together, Peeta has tears streaming down his face from laughter and I’m clutching onto his elbows for stability.

“Oh man,” says Peeta, catching his breath, “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed like that,” I admit, breathlessly. 

Peeta gives me a tender smile, but it’s soon replaced by a wide grin as another wave of uncontrollable giggles overtakes me. 

“How many times do you think he’ll count those geese tonight?” I choke out. 

“I don’t know,” Peeta shakes his head with a chuckle. He sighs. “I’m really glad you’re in on this with me, this wouldn’t be nearly as funny on my own.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve always made a pretty good team,” I say, lightly nudging him in the ribs.

When we finally leave the entryway, both our sights fall onto the crate of book supplies on my living room table. I had opened it to examine the contents briefly before therapy, but I didn’t have time to do much more than take a quick look. The laughter drains from my face as I think about the task we’re about to take on. 

“Are you ready to get started?” Peeta asks. I nod as we sit together and start sifting through supplies.

The second goose

The sun has barely begun to rise, but my day has already started. This nightmare was particularly unbearable; one where I watched Peeta through the glass like I had in the hospital in Thirteen, only on the other side I realized I was witnessing his torture firsthand. Before I’m even fully awake, I’ve bolted down the stairs and out the door. There’s lights on at his house, as my subconscious knew there would be, so I burst into his house. 

“Hey,” he says, clearly surprised by my early appearance, but not displeased.

I assess him as my brain starts to catch up with my body. Clear eyes, broad shoulders, no cuts or bruises. This is not the thin, tortured boy of my nightmare. This is just my Peeta. I collapse into his open arms, once again steady and strong.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

“Not even a little,” I say into his chest. He rests his chin on the top of my head while he strokes my hair for a while.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make hot chocolate?” he suggests. 

“You have hot chocolate?!” I exclaim, pulling back from him.

“Yeah, it’ll just take a few minutes,” he says with a chuckle at my sudden mood shift.

I take a seat at his table, tucking my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. After Peeta has started heating up a pot of milk on the stove, he furrows his brow at me.

“Are you…cold?” he asks tactfully. I pay attention to what I’m wearing for the first time and realize it’s not much, just a thin t-shirt and a small pair of shorts. Between the assortment of plush blankets on my bed and the sweat-inducing nightmares, it hasn’t made much sense to sleep in anything more than this. I suddenly feel very self-conscious sitting in his kitchen with barely any clothes on. 

“A little,” I admit, crossing my arms more firmly over my chest now that I’m a little too aware of how thin this shirt is.

“If you want to grab a sweater or something you’re welcome to. My room’s down the hall, you can take whatever from the dresser,” he offers.

“You don’t sleep upstairs?” I ask, frowning.

Peeta shrugs. “It was too much for my leg when I first moved in, and it never really made sense to relocate up there once I adjusted to the prosthetic. One of the rooms turned into storage but other than that I mostly just pretend the upstairs doesn’t exist.”

I nod my thanks to Peeta and head down the hall. It makes sense, I guess. My house never felt as empty as I’m sure Peeta’s did, but that was because all the bedrooms were occupied. It strikes me how pointless it is for both of us to have so many empty bedrooms when the other homes in the village are housing at least ten people apiece.

Peeta’s room is pretty much identical to my spare bedroom, with the standard issue Capitol furniture all in the same place. The only major difference is the painting that’s propped up on top of his dresser. It’s a truly magnificent rendering of a sunset over the forest. It might be my favorite of his. Unlike most of Peeta’s paintings, this one doesn’t seem to be a particular memory. It’s just beautiful. I smile at it before I start carefully sifting through his drawers. I find a dark green knit sweater and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Both are ridiculously large on me, but after I roll up the sleeves and tighten the drawstring on the pants it’s manageable. 

When I return to the kitchen I find two sets of eyes on me. There’s something soft in Peeta’s expression as he takes in the sight of me in his pajamas, the corners of his mouth just slightly twitching. Haymitch, however, is staring at me with his eyebrows raised as far as they’ll go. I realize the implications of me coming from Peeta’s room, this early in the morning, wearing his clothes. I feel my cheeks grow warm, which does nothing to help the situation.

“Nice of you to join us, sweetheart,” Haymitch scoffs. 

“Wish I could say the same to you,” I grumble. 

Peeta sets down a mug in front of each of us, then goes back for his own before joining us at the table. The second the smell hits my nose I feel a wave of nausea roll though me. I glance at both Haymitch and Peeta’s mugs and confirm that they’re both full of coffee. 

“Sorry I didn’t offer, do you want coffee instead?” Peeta asks, misreading my disdain as disappointment.

“No, thank you,” I scowl, adding, “The last time I had coffee I had a complete breakdown, probably best to avoid it.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes. “I’m not sure that was exactly the coffee’s fault.”

“Well it certainly didn’t help,” I snap back at him. I immediately regret mentioning it because I don’t want to talk about this now and the last thing I want is for…

“When was this?” asks Peeta in a measured tone. I’ve noticed it’s the same tone he’s adopted whenever a memory comes up between me and Haymitch that he wasn’t around for. He tries not to be upset, I know, but these things just remind him that he was left behind and being tortured while Haymitch and I were safe in Thirteen. I can’t blame him for feeling bothered by it.

“It was…the day you were…rescued,” I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, “I was supposed to film a propo but I…couldn’t.”

Peeta nods. “Oh, right. They showed me that footage,” he says quietly. If Peeta has any more thoughts on the subject he doesn’t offer them. He just takes a long pull from his mug and stares pensively out the window. Haymitch looks between the pair of us.

“Well since the three of us are here now, does that fulfill my obligation for dinner tonight?” asks Haymitch.

“I didn’t realize it was such an imposition for you to come and have someone else cook you a hot meal in a clean house,” says Peeta, returning to more of his normal self. 

My shoulders release the tension I didn’t realize they were holding. It’s a delicate balance sometimes. Peeta says that talking about the past helps him to process and accept it, but at the same time I’ve found that those topics are also most likely to trigger a flashback in him. He’s had several in front of me now, but it doesn’t get any easier to see him like that.

“Well, then, I’d better head out. Don’t wanna waste all my charm on the two of you now. Gotta save something for later,” says Haymitch. 

With Haymitch gone, Peeta returns to gazing out the window, clearly lost in thought. I just sip my hot chocolate quietly. We’ve grown accustomed to long stretches of silence between the two of us, when I come in the afternoons while he paints or when he stays after dinner so we can work on the memory book. Those silences are familiar, comfortable even. The silence now is nothing like that.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m breakable, you know,” says Peeta after a while, “I know you don’t want to trigger a flashback, but I can’t control when they come. Even if I’m careful, there’s always going to be triggers I don’t know about or can’t avoid. It’s like your nightmares, I don’t think they’ll ever really stop. So I might as well just keep living my life, I don’t want to spend my life tiptoeing around the hard topics.”

I nod, and hope that my eyes convey the apology I know he would dismiss if I said it. 

“That’s good,” I say, with a soft smile, “You’re awful at tiptoeing.”

– – –

Later that day, Haymitch and I sit at the kitchen island while Peeta prepares dinner. Occasionally, I attempt to ask if I can help with anything. Haymitch does not. This is the third week of Sunday dinners with the three of us, but Peeta hasn’t let either of us help. Probably for the best, my cooking is adequate at best and I’m not sure Haymitch could cook an edible meal if he tried. And Peeta, it turns out, is as good at cooking as he is at baking. Effie sent him a cookbook, 101 Easy Family Dinners , and he’s been working his way through it for us on Sundays. Each meal is better than the last, and while I appreciate everything Sae’s done to help us the past months, I find myself secretly hoping that Peeta will start making more of our meals.

At one point Peeta forgets his pie tin for our chicken pot pie at his house. As he leaves to go get it, despite my protests that I can go while he keeps cooking, I catch him winking at me. It makes me blush inexplicably. I’m trying to figure out why my body reacted this way to such an offhand gesture when we hear the geese start honking loudly. I stifle a laugh as I realize Peeta didn’t forget anything, at least not accidentally. He’s just taking advantage of Haymitch being here to offload another goose.

“What’d you do to my geese, boy?” Haymitch asks when Peeta returns to the kitchen.
“They were just saying hi,” says Peeta with a shrug. 

“I think they’re just starting to recognize him as the person who feeds them more than the old drunk who’s supposed to own them,” I add sarcastically. Haymitch scowls at me and Peeta chuckles as he continues cooking.

It’s true, Peeta takes care of the geese when Haymitch is too drunk to remember to feed them. He takes care of me when I’m too sad to remember to feed myself. He bakes bread for anyone who needs it and washes my dishes and paints beautiful portraits for our book. And still somehow he has time to play ridiculous goose pranks. I don’t know how he does it all. 

“You know, Haymitch, we really should get more involved in making dinner on Sundays. Maybe we shouldn’t cook but we could help in other ways,” I suggest innocently.

He just raises his eyebrows at me, waiting to see where I’m going with this.

“For example, if you provided a goose and I shot it, then Peeta–”

“You’re not eating any of my geese,” Haymitch growls at me.

“I’m just asking to eat one of them! You’ve got six, surely you can spare one .”

It’s a risky thing to say, I know, but I can’t resist the opportunity to mess with Haymitch.

Haymitch narrows his eyes at me. “What did you just say?”

“You can spare one,” I repeat.

“No you…you said I have six geese,” Haymitch says.

“Yeah,” I say plainly. Peeta’s back is turned to us but I can just barely see his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

“I have five geese,” Haymitch states firmly. 

“Oh,” I shrug, like it makes no difference to me, “I thought it was six.”

“Why would you–”

Haymitch is cut off by the sound of the phone ringing. I make no move to pick it up, I know who’s calling. Dr. Aurelius calls on Mondays and Wednesdays, my mother calls on Saturday evenings. I’ve learned the hard way that there is only one person who calls me on random days and times, and I have no desire to speak to him, now or ever.

When the ringing stops, Haymitch looks at me, bewildered.

“Did you forget how to answer the phone again, sweetheart?”

“It’ll ring again,” I say bitterly. We’ve done this too many times in the past couple of weeks, although it’s hardly been worth noting. I was just hoping at some point he’d take the hint and give up.

As if on cue, the phone starts ringing again. This time it’s Peeta’s turn to look confused, it’s clear from the look on his face he doesn’t know who’s on the other end. I sigh as I stand up and pick up the phone.

“Hello?” I say in a bored voice.

“Hi, Catnip–” I hang up the phone, setting it roughly back on the base. I turn around to see both men staring at me with their brows furrowed.

“Wrong number,” I say harshly, scowling between the pair of them as if challenging them to ask me to elaborate. Peeta turns quickly back to his work, unfortunately Haymitch takes the bait.

“Sweetheart, there’s a list of about 10 people in the world who are allowed to have your phone number right now. For your protection.” 

Well, that’s news to me. “Who made the list?” I demand.

“I did,” says Haymitch calmly.

“Well, you got one of them wrong,” I say. 

Peeta turns around again, and looks a little relieved to see Haymitch looking as lost as he probably feels. 

“Is it–” Haymitch starts.

“Just drop it, okay? I can handle him. Just don’t go adding anyone else to the list without running it by me,” I say.

“‘Him?’” Haymitch raises his eyebrows. “I figured that one was a pretty safe bet.”

Haymitch and I glare at each other while Peeta looks between the two of us.

“Well you figured wrong, now drop it, ” I say through gritted teeth.

I’m irritable throughout dinner. No matter how hard Peeta tries to bring me into conversation, I give short replies and mostly keep my eyes on my plate as I push the food around. It always throws me off when Gale calls, but I find tonight that my anger is focused at Haymitch. He would’ve known better if I had gotten the chance to tell him what I learned about the parachute bombs. If he hadn’t blown me off and dismissed it as “boy trouble.”

So I sit and listen. Haymitch and Peeta discuss the rebuilding of the District, which is apparently moving into “Phase Two”, whatever that means. They talk about have you heard from Johanna lately and did Effie tell you about her new job and I heard Paylor’s doing an address soon . Despite my best efforts, I feel my mood lifting as I listen to them. By the time Peeta pulls out a tray of warm cookies for dessert, I’ve put Gale far enough out of my mind to crack a smile.

Peeta hangs around awkwardly in the entryway when Haymitch leaves. Now that we’ve started the memory book, it’s become a habit for us to work on it after dinner, but we decided earlier in the week that we would take a break on Sundays. I wish we hadn’t now, though. Even though working on the book is quiet and painful, I like how it gives Peeta a reason to stay longer into the evening. Most nights he stays until one of us–usually me–is too tired to keep working. 

I can tell Peeta’s trying to read my mood and decide if I want him to go or not.

“You can hang around here even if we’re not doing the book tonight. If you want to,” I add.

“I can do the dishes,” Peeta says quickly, but I wave the offer away.

“They can wait until tomorrow, take the night off,” I say, leading him towards the couch.

It’s a big couch, but we still manage to sit so close that our shoulders brush together. A new habit, I guess, as most nights we need to sit close enough to see each other’s work. Still, neither of us makes any attempt to move further away.

We hardly ever have time like this, where neither of us is painting or writing or cooking or gutting squirrels. It’s nice, but I don’t really know what to do with myself. After a few minutes, I allow my head to drop down onto his shoulder. It’s perfectly friendly , I remind myself.

“Are you okay?” Peeta asks quietly. I know he wants to ask more about the phone call, and if he asks I’ll tell him because I promised honesty, but I really don’t want to talk about it yet.

“Yeah, just annoyed at Haymitch,” I deflect with a sigh. “I’ll get over it.”

Peeta contemplates for a moment. “I get mad at him sometimes, too,” he admits. “I really try not to blame him for what happened to me, and most days I don’t, but sometimes–”

“I do,” I blurt out. “I’ll always blame him for that.”

“You don’t mean that,” Peeta says.

“Has he ever told you how he got that scar under his eye?” I ask.
Peeta looks at me curiously. “No, but I’ve wondered about it.”

“I did that with my fingernails,” I say quietly, looking down at my lap, “When he told me you had been left in the arena.”

Peeta gives a sad little laugh, his face a mix between pity and resignation.

“It must’ve been awful for him. The only two people he cares about in the world, sent back into the arena,” he muses aloud. “I was mad, at first, when I realized he promised both of us he’d help the other. But he really thought he could do it. It must’ve been unbearable for him when it went sideways.”

“We were both miserable,” I admit. “I think we’ll always blame each other and we’ll always blame ourselves. But we both knew that we were the only ones who understood the others’ pain when you were gone.”

Peeta pats my knee lightly. “Well, I don’t blame either of you,” he whispers, “so try to go easy on each other, okay?”

The third goose

“How do I know when this is done?” I ask as I stir the pot of pasta Peeta’s left me in charge of. It’s our fourth night of cooking dinner on our own. Sae is cooking more and more for the reconstruction workers, and we all decided that Peeta and I were ready to start cooking for ourselves. It took me two nights to realize that I could trick Peeta into letting me help under the guise of asking him to teach me to cook. 

Peeta takes the slotted spoon I’ve been using to stir and fishes out a few noodles, plucking one and popping it into his mouth.

“Almost there, give it a few more minutes. You want them a little softer,” he says approvingly, holding another noodle up toward my mouth for me to taste. It’s chewy and bland, but my mouth has been watering at the smell of the cheese sauce Peeta’s making, so I’m just hoping it’ll taste alright in the end.

“What do you think?” he asks a minute later, holding up a small spoonful of the coveted cheese for me to try.

“Mmm,” I hum, “Forget about the pasta, I just want a bowl of that.”

Peeta smiles warmly. “You won’t be saying that once you try–”

The door bursts open loudly and someone stomps into the house. Peeta snaps his head around, and on instinct I’ve already grabbed a knife and I’m poised to throw it when I see who it is. At the sight of Haymitch I drop the knife down to my side.

“That’s it!” Haymitch roars. “Which one of you keeps putting geese in my yard?!”

I quickly busy myself with putting the knife back and stirring the pasta again, desperately trying not to laugh.

“I think you’re drinking too much. You got those geese from the train, remember?” Peeta says casually.

“This isn’t funny, boy, you and I both know I had four geese when we built that pen. Now there are seven geese in my yard right now!” Haymitch yells.

“Maybe they’re mating,” says Peeta with a shrug. A burst of laughter escapes me before I clap a hand over my mouth. 

Haymitch rounds on me. “Katniss, look me in the eyes and tell me you have no idea how those geese got there.” 

I scowl at him the best I can while still suppressing laughter. “I have no idea how those geese got there.” After the words leave my mouth I realize how high pitched my voice is, how utterly obvious it’s just become that I’m lying. 

Peeta makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan, and Haymitch shakes his head. “You’re a terrible liar, sweetheart. No more, you both hear me?”

Peeta and I both give hesitant nods, and Haymitch walks out of the house without another word. The second we hear the door slam, we both break into a fit of giggles.

“Well, that was fun,” Peeta says with a grin.

“It was nice while it lasted,” I agree.

“Don’t worry, we’ll come up with plenty more ways to mess with Haymitch,” Peeta says. “Thanks for helping me out with this one.”
“I was the one who gave it away,” I remind him.

“It had to end eventually, and I really didn’t want to order more geese,” he shrugs.

“Wait…what are you going to do with the fourth goose?” I ask mischievously. His smile tells me immediately that we are on the same page.

“Well,” he says, “it looks like we’re having goose for dinner tomorrow night.”

– – –

Later that night, a loud clap of thunder jolts me from sleep. The gentle rain that had lulled me to sleep has now escalated into a full thunderstorm. It’s not unusual for me to fall asleep on the couch while we’re working on the memory book, but I am surprised to find my head resting on Peeta’s lap. I don’t remember laying down, but I’m so comfortable I decide to try and fall back asleep before Peeta notices…

“I should probably go home,” he says. 

I sigh, pulling myself up into a sitting position. “How do you do that?” I ask incredulously.

“Do what?” says Peeta, frowning.

“You always know as soon as I’m awake, even if I don’t move or anything!”

“Oh,” Peeta chuckles, “you make this little noise every time you wake up. Well, not when you’re having a nightmare, but when you wake up naturally. It’s kind of like…” he demonstrates by taking a sharp inhale through his nose, then releasing the air with a hum.

I gape at him. “I don’t do that,” I say petulantly.

“Yeah, you do,” he says adamantly, “It was one of the first things I remembered about you that wasn’t tampered with at all.”

I smile a little at this, but then his previous words sink in. “Peeta, you can’t go home in this storm.”
“It’s not like it’s far, I’ll be fine” he says dismissively. 

“I won’t let you out into a lightning storm with a metal leg!” The image of Peeta after hitting the forcefield swims behind my eyes. “Please, don’t go,” I say, panicked.

“Okay, Katniss. I’ll stay until the storm stops,” he agrees.

“That could be hours from now. Why don’t you just sleep here?” I ask.

I’ve done it, said the words I’ve been holding back for a month. The words hang thick in the air for what might be several seconds or several days.

“I shouldn’t…” Peeta mumbles. Whether he’s setting a boundary I’ve failed to maintain or he just doesn’t want to sleep with me, I try to swallow my disappointment quickly.

“You don’t have to…sleep in my bed,” I say, embarrassed. “There’s the room down here, or I think my mother’s room is clean.” I don’t offer Prim’s room, I’m sure Peeta understands.

“I don’t have…pajamas,” he says weakly.

“Yes you do,” I say, eyes lighting up, “I still have the pajamas I borrowed from you last week.”

He considers this for a moment, looking more at ease now that his concerns have been addressed. 

“I’ll sleep in your mother’s room,” he says slowly, “That way I’m nearby if you have a nightmare."

I brighten at this, and soon we are packing up the memory book for the night. Peeta follows me to the foot of the stairs, then pauses. His face is puzzled, like he’s working something out.

“Katniss…you want me to stay, don’t you?” There’s something searching in his gaze. I smile softly at him as I take his hand and respond in the only way I know how.

“Always.”