Plucked
Chapter One
I sit outside the open kitchen door in the late afternoon sunshine among the debris of three plucked game hens. Feathers float about my bare feet in tufty mounds, sticking to the weeds climbing up around the steps where I perch with a fourth bird held secure between my knees as I rid it of its plumage. With my brow set in deep concentration, I tug at an obstinate handful of feathers and yank them free with such force that I almost drop the hen in the dirt. Blowing my hair out of my eyes, I toss back my braid and get a tighter grasp for the next pull.
The day is warm and dry and, even with the sun beginning to dip beyond the mountain peaks, the heat of the afternoon clings to my skin like a damp sponge. I long for a cool breeze so common in the Meadow of District 12 but from where I sit alongside my house in the Village, no amount of refreshing air can reach me for an adequate chill.
The Village, or once named Victor's Village by the previous rulers of the Capitol, is alive with the sound of evening traffic. Aside from the three houses owned by actual Victors of the Hunger Games, the once vacant pre-built homes in the Village are now being used by any and all that need shelter during the reconstruction of District 12. The ashes of a ghost town have all been swept away, a memorial built in the Meadow for the lost. Skeletal frames of new homes, businesses, and government buildings are rising from the dust daily. Even from where I sit I can see the roof line of the new factory where many inhabitants of 12 will one day manufacture medicines for Panem.
Though the booming future of my district grows rapidly closer with each pour of concrete or hammered nail, for me it still seems far off. In the meantime, those who have returned from District 13, those who chose to make a new start at home rather than seek out employment in other districts, have set up camp in the Village and have created a kind of replacement Hob right there in the square. Buying, selling, trading, or simply sharing what they have for the well-being of all while the inhabitants scratch their way back to civilization, it is what District 12 does best.
I myself spend a great deal of time mingling with my neighbors after a day of hunting and scavenging in the woods. I'm not in need of much, doing more sharing than trading, and get along fine, just as I've always have. Though I can't see all of the activity from where I sit, I can hear the murmur and chime of voices mixing with occasional ruckus laughter from the Villagers as they move from station to station set up outside the open doors of the clustered houses. It is Saturday and, with a promise of a day off following, every voice rings with a sense of holiday and merry-making. It is a pleasant sound once foreign to these parts but growing increasingly familiar and at home.
"Still plucking your chickens, Katniss?"
I look up in mild alarm, meeting a pair of blue eyes full of amusement as Peeta appears around the corner of the house from the direction of his own across the way.
"I had hoped to eat before tomorrow's breakfast, you know."
"Very funny," I grunt, using my knife to deftly chop off both of the bird's feet at once against the sturdy wood step. My aim purposely lands precariously close to where Peeta's foot rests, causing him to jerk it back in safety. "There's one already on the spit. You won't starve tonight," I assure him wryly. "What's in the box?"
Glancing up, I take note of the lightweight pastry box balancing in Peeta's right hand, a basket of fresh bread under his other arm.
"A surprise," he responds vaguely, catching my incredulous raised eyebrows. "A birthday surprise."
"Show me," I insist, unable to hide a small sense of excitement from my face. My expression seems to have a pleasant effect on Peeta, but he doesn't relent, holding the box out of my reach and bypassing me through the open kitchen door before I can even attempt to nab it.
"You'll see."
"It's my birthday," I argue, whipping a decapitated bird claw and hitting him from behind as he walks away.
"Hence the surprise, sweetheart." Peeta tucks the box safely away on the highest shelf of the pantry and moves to set the basket of bread down on the table to prepare for dinner.
"Speaking of Haymitch…"
"I wasn't."
"I didn't see him in the Village earlier." I gather my limp, de-frocked hens, sweeping feathers and extricated limbs into a pile to take care of later. "He's not trying to duck out of this little party, is he?"
"No," Peeta shakes his head with his nose in a drawer looking for a knife to cut the bread. "Readying himself up, most likely."
Making a face of disgust, I glance toward Haymitch's house before crossing the threshold of my own. I wonder for a moment if maybe I should go over and drag him away from the bottle before he is completely incapacitated.
"He'll come," Peeta assures me, setting down the knife and taking the birds before I place their dirty carcasses on the clean table. There is something in his response that holds an underlying meaning, but Peeta is too good at keeping secrets to divulge anything, and I am never very adept at reading between the lines. "Just set the table, birthday girl."
He leaves me without giving away anything, but not before our fingertips linger just long enough in a gentle, brushing touch. Both hands are warm from their recent occupations, Peeta's from his baking, mine from my plucking. His are soft and clean, whereas mine are dusty with grit and stick with stray bits of down. Self-consciously, I drop my eyes from his gaze and pull my hands to myself, examining the jagged edges of my fingernails crusty with compacted dirt and animal blood.
"I better wash up first."
Bypassing the small washroom beside the kitchen, I head upstairs instead. Stripping out of my sweat-drenched clothes, I run the shower and quickly scrub away the scents of the day. I even use some of the frothy, fragrant body soap left behind by my prep team the last time they stopped by to work their miracles on my poor self-image. What my silly, lovable pets would think of me now after months of neglecting to hardly even look at myself in the mirror?
Toweling down, I do just that, frowning at my reflection but with no idea of how to rectify what I see. Who cares really? Who is there to look fabulous for? Not the Villagers, who are coated in more grit than I am most of the time. Not Haymitch, who carries a continuous, permeating stench of white liquor and stale vomit wherever he roams. Peeta, with his warm scent of cinnamon and dill…
I grab a file and attacked my nails vigorously, buffing them as clean as I can on my own devices. Combing through my wet hair, I at least manage to bring some sense of care to that with my simple but elegant braid. It is a signature look, but nothing else fits me better. Back in my bedroom, I pull out a lightweight, pale orange sun dress and slide it on. I haven't worn a dress in ages, but this is a special occasion. Besides…it is Peeta's favorite color.
I can remember the first time I wore it, dressing on the train before we pulled up in District 4 during the Victory Tour. I was already tired, sick, and shaky from the exhausted effort of trying to keep ex-President Snow satisfied with my performance and, despite Cinna's talented hand, the dress hung limply on my thin, pathetic frame. Not even the warmth of the sunset color of the garment could hide the circles around my hallow eyes.
When I stepped out of my compartment to ready myself for the awaiting crowd at the station, my eyes met with Peeta's where he stood alone, gazing out the window at the landscape flying by. He, though struggling like myself, still looked handsome in his white suit, his golden curls combed perfectly into place by his prep team.
The sound of my compartment door closing had caused him to look up and meet my gaze and, though he saw the emptiness there, he seemed taken aback by the sight of me in that dress. As though catching his breath, Peeta had blinked suddenly before recovering his composure and nodding, giving me his characteristic smile. "You look great."
I felt odd standing there in those frills, and I fussed with the folds of soft fabric billowing around my waistline. "It's orange," I fumbled, remembering that it was his favorite color. "Like a sunset."
"Yeah," Peeta nodded, watching me as I moved toward the window.
Looking for a diversion from his intense gaze, I nodded at the sparkling horizon. "Have you ever seen the ocean?"
Both of us knew that neither of us had, but Peeta answered anyway, following my direction and peering out at the distant waves. "No, you?"
I shook my head. "I'd be afraid to swim in that. So deep and unpredictable."
"I'd be afraid to swim in anything," Peeta laughed lightly. "I can't even float."
The train began to slow down, easing to a stop at the station. From where we stood we could see the carefully gathered crowd surrounded by stoic Peacekeepers wielding weapons and a sense of strained order. My stomach clenched, my breath coming up short. So many more districts to go and all I wanted was to go home and curl up in my bed to sleep forever.
I remember Peeta's hand slipping into mine with a reassuring pressure against my own damp palm. Our eyes met once again and he nodded. "Let's go."
Standing in front of the full length mirror now, I examine myself standing in the dress. Maybe I should pull out another one. Maybe even throw on a simple pants and shirt, be more like myself. Besides…it is just dinner with Haymitch and Peeta, just a simple birthday party.
Sighing heavily, I steel myself to return downstairs, the flowing skirt of the dress making noise against the door frame as I pass into the hall.
Despite his earlier instructions, Peeta has the table laid out with plates and cutlery by the time I return. Cloth napkins that I don't even know I own are folded and have been placed beside each plate while a set of long stemmed homemade candles flank an earthenware water pitcher full of blooming primroses. The sun falls through the open door and glints against the glassware causing the whole homey scene to sparkle.
"You're going to have to check this bird," Peeta says from the fire spit after I enter the room. "You're the expert on this…I just do bread." He glances up as I move forward and does a slight double take, standing up straight and catching a hand on the mantel as if to steady himself. Peeta keeps a straight face but can't hide the pleasant surprise in his eyes. "Looks like I'm under dressed."
I feel myself grow uncomfortable once again under his attention and have to look away, stepping briskly up to the spit and grabbing a knife and fork to check the bird. "I have all these dresses that just sit and collect dust. I really should get rid of them," I say practically. "Sell or trade them for something useful."
"Maybe…" Peeta agrees without much conviction. He has yet to move and our closeness brings warmth throughout my being that has nothing to do with the fire on the hearth. "Just not that one. That one you should keep."
A loud bang on the floor by the door brings us both abruptly back to the present, and we whirl around to see Haymitch stumble slightly up the steps into the kitchen. The noise came from him dropping a large wooden box, grunting and cursing as he pushes it across the floor out of his way. There is no doubt he has been drinking, but I am relieved to see he is no more intoxicated than his usual state-of-being.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," he growls, sliding into a chair and noticing the nicely decorated table. "Is it somebody's birthday?"
"Nice to see you too, Haymitch," I exchange a look with Peeta who covers a smile and moves off to retrieve the prepared vegetables for the meal. "What's in the box?"
"A surprise," Haymitch responds curtly, pulling a bottle of wine out from under his jacket. The garment is too warm for the weather and he pulls it off, leaving it to lay on the floor by his feet and revealing large sweat stains beneath the arms of his shirt.
"All the surprises," I mutter, removing the bird from the spit and placing it on the plate Peeta provides. "You two are far too conspiring. It drives me crazy. First Peeta's box, and now this," I jab a sharp fork in the direction of the box on the floor.
"Bet mine's bigger," Haymitch pops the cork on the wine bottle and pours himself a generous cupful.
"More lethal maybe," Peeta counters. "I'd be careful opening that if I were you," he warns me, carrying the bird to the table and taking over the job of carving it into manageable portions.
"Open it for her then, if you're so worried about her well-being." Haymitch waves a careless arm, sloshing drops of wine on the scuffed wood floor.
"No way," I won't have any of that. "It's my birthday, my present."
"Go on then."
Leaving the table just after sitting down, I cross to the box and eye it warily a moment before prying off the lid and peering inside. Packed securely with sweet smelling meadow grass, I find a carved piece of stained wood, gently curved with no rough edges. Pulling it free from its case, I hold it up to reveal a handmade wall hanging with brackets to hang my hunting bows and pegs for my arrow holsters. Along the curved top, carved in the smooth, dark wood is a delicate, inlaid mockingjay.
"Oh, Haymitch." It is all I can say and in barely a whisper. It is beautiful, so perfect and finely constructed. "Did you make this?"
"With these hands?" Haymitch scoffs, holding up both and pointing out the unstable tremor which always plagues his dexterities. "Not in a million years. I had some help from a few of the Villagers, traded a great deal to get it too, mind you." The tone of his voice betrays his pride notwithstanding, and he shrugs off my look of pleased thanks. "Peeta designed the mockingjay."
Peeta also maintains a modest smile and ducks his head over his plate as if it were nothing.
"Well, thank you," I say softly. "Both."
Haymitch curses good-naturedly and knocks back the rest of his wine, reaching for the bottle for a refill. "What about you, kid? Where's your fancy box?"
Peeta shakes his head. "Later," he says, "after we eat."
I reluctantly and gently place my gift back in its box and return to the table, sitting next to Peeta and accepting his offering of boiled potatoes.
We soon engage in stuffing our faces with juicy slices of wild poultry, starchy vegetables swimming in butter, warm bread, and tart apple slices. We laugh over trivial stories and Haymitch's bad jokes, talking of mundane things happening in the district and Panem in general, avoiding reminiscing about anything much. I had received a birthday letter from my mother earlier which I read bits and pieces from out loud for them both to hear. It seems as though Mom has been spending some time with a fellow healer at the hospital where she works and, though the letter doesn't allude to much, we all speculate the relationship is more than meets the eye. I joke along with the others, but don't know how I feel of such a thing. My mother? Remarried? Not likely.
When we think we couldn't possibly eat any more, Peeta brings down the box from the pantry and presents me with my birthday cake. It is simple but elegantly designed at the same time. A creamy white icing embellished with fluffy, cloud-like yellow flowers resembling delicious looking dandelions swimming on a sea of foam. The cake melts on the tongue with a chocolate center of warm fudge. I manage two slices and lick my dish clean with content pleasure.
Both Peeta and I accept a celebratory glass of wine which we remove to the back steps just as the sun dips below the mountains leaving a canvass of swirling hues of pink, orange, and purple.
"I wish I had my brushes," Peeta says longingly.
"There'll be another sunset to paint tomorrow," Haymitch grunts, leaving us all in contemplative silence for a stretch of moments. I'm sure we were all thinking the same thing with stirred emotions. After so many trying occasions, thinking that we had seen our last sunset, it is hard to get use to accepting that there would always be another one to watch for many days, hopefully years to come. I sip my wine and pay close attention to the way it warms as it goes down, tingling my taste buds and burning with a comforting sensation. I note the way the tips of the trees lining the woods sway slightly in a breeze which only they could feel. I watch the flutter of a cluster of far off birds rising and falling in the growing gloom, the golden rim of the last rays of sun reflecting off a single cloud stretching across the western sky.
"Breathtaking," Haymitch manages to break the spell with his characteristic sarcasm. He has abandoned the glass and been simply chugging from the long-necked bottle, finishing off the last dregs with a deep belch of satisfaction. Now that the alcohol is gone, it is time to break up the party. "Happy birthday to all," he pushes himself to unsteady feet. "Be well, sleep careful."
"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I mutter at his retreating, staggering form disappearing into the shadows toward the center of the Village. My comment causes Peeta to chuckle slightly but it only brings up a distant memory to mind for me. I allow myself to wonder for a moment how Gale is doing. I haven't heard news of him in quite some time but imagine that whatever he is doing, wherever he is at that moment, he is fine…and not likely alone.
"Never liked this stuff much," Peeta interrupts my musings and dumps the last of his wine in the grass beside the steps.
"Me neither," I mumble into my glass, finishing it off despite my statement of agreement. The effect of the alcohol mixing with the food leaves me feeling heavy and sleepy. Leaning in, I rest my head on Peeta's shoulder, grateful for his steady presence and companionship as the night draws closer and encloses us in shadow. Glittering lightning bugs flutter like miniature stars on the lawn, mirroring the much larger, stationary glow of the heavens overhead. If there is a moon, I can't see it from where we sit.
Neither of us speaks; content to sit and listen to the evening sounds of the Village. An owl awakes and hoots as if to signal a change in shifts, sending the day birds off to sleep in their nests until dawn. Something moves in the brush a few yards from the kitchen steps, and I see the glow of a pair of eyes. Buttercup is out hunting field mice.
Behind the house the voices of our neighbors carry in varying elevations as the Saturday night merrymaking continues with the chink of bottles, boisterous conversation, and the musical drone of a bow drawn across the strings of a fiddle. Someone calls for a dance and a guitar picks up the melody of the first instrument and keeps pace with a lively tune.
"Haymitch does much better on Saturday nights," Peeta points out. "He's not the only one up late drinking, gives him some company."
"I doubt he notices the company much," I argue lightly. "But it's an excuse, I suppose."
"That's one downfall of the revolution," Peeta agrees. "Liquor is no longer illegal."
"He'll eventually kill himself." It is partly a question, partly a statement that I dread the sureness of.
"Not if I can help it." Peeta presses in closer, reaching up and brushing the hair out of my eyes and planting a swift kiss on the top of my head as if it is an afterthought. The gesture is welcoming just the same, and I can't help but feel at home. It will be time for him to leave soon, go back to his own place for the night and leave me to the emptiness of my own. Leave me to the quiet of the kitchen and the darkness of my bedroom where even Buttercup will be missed until he has had his fill of hunting and returns to share my lonely bed.
To waylay him just a moment longer, I find Peeta's fingers in the dark and entwine them with mine. The temperature is falling with the enveloping night, and I shiver in my light sun dress. Without hesitation, Peeta slips his arm around my shoulders and transfers his warmth to me, tucking me against his chest with his chin on my head.
"Did you have a good birthday?"
I nod into his shirt, taking a moment to indulge in his aroma of fresh air and baking bread. "The best."
"Haymitch does put on a rousing party."
I giggle, feeling giddy from the wine. "He's such good company."
"No," Peeta grows serious again, "this is good company." His fingertips brush the length of my bare arm causing the hair to rise, and I feel my eyes droop contently. Maybe if I don't move he will remain here, gently rubbing away the strain of the day while I sleep. In the months since our return from the war in the Capitol, our complicated relationship has slowly begun to mend. Peeta has been cautious, I can tell, maybe not trusting himself quite yet. I also have been reluctant, preferring to suffer my nightmares alone like Haymitch, rather than let anyone in to make an attempt at fixing my brokenness. At times I feel like fleeing, but to where? I am still under instructions from the Capitol to remain in District 12 until otherwise notified. And what would be the point? My demons plague my mind, and I can't leave that behind no matter where I go.
Mundane routine has finally formed a semblance of a life for me and the other Victors, the only true friends I have left, if 'friends' is the right description. Haymitch is Haymitch, but Peeta is right. Peeta is good company. The only company, I have to admit, that I really long for.
"Listen," he got my attention, stopping the soothing motion of his hand against my skin. I do, and hear the sound of the fiddle changing its tune and slowing its momentum. It is a familiar melody, the District's version of a waltz we often play at special occasions. "Here," Peeta tightens his grip on my hand, getting to his feet and pulling me off the step with him. "One more birthday gift."
I'm not sure if dancing translates into a gift, but I accept his hands around my waist nonetheless and allow Peeta to pull me in close, resting my chin on his shoulder. Moving with the music, we turn slowly on the well-worn path before my door, wrapped in darkness and breathing in the coolness of the evening air. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through his shirt and the familiar cadence of his breathing tickling the strands of hair circling my ear.
Closing my eyes, I lean into him and let Peeta lead effortlessly. The words to the song eluded me, but I find myself humming along softly to the rise and fall of the drawn out notes with each turn of the fiddle's bow.
"Beats those presumptuous bands at the Capitol balls, doesn't it?" Peeta smiles.
"Definitely. Although I could use some of that vomit drink, I wouldn't mind making a little more room for another slice of cake."
"Don't even joke about that," he shutters in disgust.
I laugh and step back as the song ends followed by the twill of laughter around a distant fire at the center of the Village. "Sorry, I guess I'll just have to wait and eat the rest for breakfast."
"Alright," Peeta reaches up and fingers the length of my braid hanging across my shoulder. "I guess this is where I say goodnight then."
"Yeah," I meet his eyes glinting like stars in the sporadic light of the candles still glowing in the kitchen.
"Happy birthday, Katniss," Peeta whispers before hesitating as if making a difficult decision and leaning in, brushing his lips softly against mine. It is the briefest of kisses, holding so much meaning in such a light touch. I almost lose my balance searching for more but he is gone, gliding into the shadows with a last minute pressure from his fingers to mine. Feeling confused and slightly deserted, I wait until his footsteps die and the night engulfs him completely before turning and rushing inside.
Closing the door firmly behind me, I release a withheld breath, blinking rapidly. I didn't expect that feeling to return, not this fast. The feeling of longing, of wanting more… I should have responded better. I should have held on to him and made him aware that I don't want him to go, that a simple kiss isn't enough. That for once, without question, I want him and him alone.
Doubts fall like a cold shower and leave me shivering in my own warm kitchen. Maybe that's what I want, but what does he want? Maybe there is a reason the kiss had been so slight, that he had backed away so soon. Is it still too painful for him to touch me in that way? Is each romantic gesture still obscured with shiny horrors of torture? But it was Peeta who suggested the dance, who brushed my hair away and caressed my arm. It was Peeta's old familiar look of longing that had caused me to blush under his gaze in the kitchen. I didn't misinterpret that, I was sure.
Ignoring the mess left on the table from dinner, I drift through the house stopping only long enough to blow out the diminished candles before taking the stairs to my bedroom. Slipping out of the dress, I leave it draped across the back of a chair and pull on a soft, cotton nightgown with ruffles that brush my knees. Despite the light attire, I feel stifled in the closed room. Crossing to the window, I crack open the pane and let in the refreshing night air mingling with the sounds of happiness and comfort from the townspeople down the lane. I stop to see if I can catch the sound of Haymitch's rough laughter but can't distinguish it from the rest.
Climbing into bed and burrowing down amongst the pillows, I expect another night of tossing and turning before I can find rest. The heavy food, fresh air, and wine work against me, however, because within moments I fall fast asleep.
My dreams are a collage of random snapshots. A tracker jacker nest exploding into dust turning to ashes blowing across skeletal remains to walls of lethal fog stretching its tendril fingers through towering trees. Faces swim out of the fog, faces of the dead overcome by its toxic fumes. My father with his coal smeared face, Finnick and his piercing green eyes, Prim and her golden hair…one after another, all the people I have ever cared for who have been stolen away by President Snow and his oppressive government regime.
The deadly fog laps against their immobile forms, wrapping about them like chains and squeezing like a vice until each one bursts under the pressure, exploding in a flash of feathers. I can feel the agonizing scream catch in my constricted throat as I watch my friends and loved ones transform into over sized mockingjays and take flight out of the consuming reach of the fog. In an instant they are gone, leaving me alone to face the debilitating effects of the arena's cruel torture.
Searching wildly about for an escape route, I hear the sound of feet crashing through the brush and turn to see Peeta running for his life out of the fog. "Run!" he yells, the sound of his desperate plea sounding muffled in my ears. "Run, Katniss! Go!"
In an instant he flies by, tripping over fallen logs and tangled vines before disappearing into the trees. Choking and coughing on toxic air, I attempt to get my feet to move but in the darkest levels of my dreams, I find myself sluggish and slow. Is it just the dream or are the effects of the fog really here to take me down for good?
With a scratched and worn voice, I attempt to call Peeta back for help. Struggling through the same brush he had just crashed through, I drag myself through the din, feeling suffocated by the darkness closing in around me. Fighting until I am sure I can go no further, I stretch out my fingers in desperation, grabbing at foliage to pull me forward. My body is like a weight of a hundred pounds holding me back. Each movement is agony, each breath shorter than the last. I am drowning in my own flesh and blood with no escape.
"Peeta…" I gasp, reaching, searching, sobbing without tears. My hand clasps something warm and solid. Looking up, I peer through the mist and find him, sprawled out on the ground with vacant eyes staring into nothing. Flesh burnt and black, tendrils of smoke emitting a sickening heat, and I know he is gone. "Peeta!"
The bloodcurdling scream I hear comes from my own dry throat, and I sit up straight in my bed, kicking aside the twisted sheet wound around my sweat drenched body. Heaving in desperate gasps of air, my eyes search wildly in the dark, reaching for any form of reality to ground me. Buttercup's tail disappears through the partially open door with a low, irritated growl for being disturbed. I can't care less about his feelings, thankful to be awake and separated from my nightmares once again.
Slipping out of bed onto shaky limbs, I feel my way through the dark to the bathroom across the hall, turning on the cold tap and splashing frigid water on my face, dripping it down my neck as I gulp handfuls with shaky breaths. It is okay, I am fine. Just fine. Peeta is not dead, this is not the Games…I am fine.
Despite my self-reassurances, I tremble as I returned to bed, fighting off the visions burning in my mind, both memory and dream. If only there is a way to forget, to pluck pieces of history from my timeline and chuck them away, like old scraps of fabric in a fire barrel, to burn away never to plague me again. Anything to sleep undisturbed, like a child without worry or fear.
There can be no sleep for me anymore that night. It is pointless to even try. The clock beside the bed gives the time as nearly two-thirty in the morning. Too early to get up, too late to force myself to sleep. The sounds of night life drift through the open window on a breeze causing my skin to rise in a chill, shivering in my damp nightgown. The bedding has fallen to the floor where I haven't bothered to pick it up and don't move to do so then.
The Saturday night partiers have dispersed leaving only the music of crickets in the tall grass as a lullaby to the sleeping Villagers. It is so quiet…and dark. My erratic shaking has little to do with the cold and beads of sweat brake out on my forehead once again, causing my hair to stick in clumps and snarls about my face. Is it my imagination, or do I hear a creak of a door downstairs? I am paranoid no doubt, still living in the after effects of the nightmare. It is probably just Buttercup moving around the kitchen in search of scraps on the table. I locked the door after coming in, didn't I?
Maybe…but that is not Buttercup on the stairs. The footsteps are too heavy and fall with certainty of direction even in the dark. My eyes dart toward the half-closed door, my hand sliding beneath my pillows and clasping to the handle of the knife I keep hidden each night. Someone is there, standing in the door frame, slowly pushing free a larger opening in the entrance. My breath catches in my throat, muscles tense.
"Peeta…"
"Katniss," he steps into the light of a burning street lamp filtering through the window, showing his strong features full of confusion and worry. "I heard you scream."
"How?" My grip relaxes on the knife, and I retrieve my hand from beneath the pillow.
"My window," he explains. "It was open."
Of course, I think, full of relief. Shifting on the bed, I sit up and make room for him to draw near, sitting on the edge of the mattress beside me.
"You're all wet," he notices. "Are you okay?"
I nod, relaxing and allowing him to pull my tangled hair back over my trembling shoulders. Unconvinced, Peeta frowns and places a hand on each, rubbing warmth back into my arms.
"I'm sorry I woke you."
He shakes his head, dismissing my apology. "I wasn't sleeping."
"A dream?"
"Of course."
"Me too."
We fall silent, and I can't help but groan as Peeta's hands find a sore spot in my shoulder blade, a tightness from hours of overexertion while hunting.
"Does that hurt?" he stops.
"No," I insist. "It's just sore. I over did it today I guess." Laughing mildly, I am thankful when he resumes pressure on my aching muscles, kneading out the knots like bread dough. All of my fearful quaking has desisted now that Peeta is near, though I still feel cold and wish for the warmth of my quilt lying on the floor. "Hand me that blanket will you?"
Peeta reaches down and drags the bedding back onto the mattress, preparing to tuck it around me. "Wait," he stops. "You won't get warm in that."
I look down at my nightgown, having forgotten that it is wet, both from sweat and water from the bathroom sink. Before I can do anything about it, Peeta is back to my aid, gently lifting the drenched garment off my clammy skin, over my shoulders and tosses it away. Exposed and helpless, I meet his gaze and find myself unashamed. Peeta covers my lap with the quilt and resettles himself at my shoulder. With unhurried, careful movements, he runs his fingers through my unruly hair, pulling it back and deftly coercing it into a fresh braid.
I finger the long, thick strand lying on my shoulder in slight awe. "The many talents of Peeta Mellark." I can sense his smile without seeing it.
"You haven't seen nothing yet, sweetheart." The softness of his touch, his hands, his lips…feel like butterfly wings on a delicate flower. There is no question of doubt in our closeness now, in our actions or response. I curl up in the safety of his arms with the residue of my nightmares banished from the room. For the first time I notice that Peeta has left his house in such a rush that he didn't even dress, wearing only the pair of pajama pants he sleeps in. Lying beside him in the bed, I run my own fingertips across his bare chest feeling an inward shiver quite new and inviting.
Recalling a vague memory of security and similar vulnerability, I look deep into Peeta's eyes and ask the question I already know the answer too. "Stay with me?"
It is there, deep in the blue that gazes back at me without wavering. Solid, honest and true, the boy with the bread answers: "Always."
This time my lips are the first to seek out his with urgency and longing that he can't doubt my feeling in the least. There are no cameras capturing our every move, no audience to dictate our emotions or haggle over our performance as if we were animals in a ring. There is no one but us and our need for each other, whatever that means. I don't care to analyze it any longer, I simply want to submerge myself in the moment and forget everything but Peeta and the feel of his lips on my skin.
In the heat of the moment the quilt is once again pushed aside and discarded. Peeta's strong arms wrap securely around my waist and pull me in, gliding a hand up my back and fingering the lacy edge of my undergarment. I encourage his interest by helping to remove it, dropping all pretext of modesty or shame. In all our time together we had seen each other in many degrees of undress, but this was different. This wasn't nakedness as a means of survival or a battle with the elements. This was revealing by choice and desire.
Peeta explores with such gentle caresses that my insides burn in full enjoyment of his touch, rushing to my senses and making me weak and dizzy with the intoxicating effects. Without hesitancy or fear of the unknown, Peeta brushes my hair back from my face, kissing my shoulders, neck, and jawline, all the way to my awaiting lips.
It is my turn to explore, and this time there is no insistence that he hide himself from my embarrassment. This is no wounded man in need of care, biting back pain without shame for his nakedness. This is capable, healthy flesh for my eyes only.
His reaction to my touch is full of longing which causes my heart to hammer within my chest. Clinging together as one, moving and thinking as one. I know I will never feel lonely again. The heat of his breath dampens my skin and I release an involuntary sigh of satisfaction. Slowly the momentum rises, releasing ever increasing waves of passion, each more blissful than the last.
Peeta is left shaking in the aftermath, lying beside me on the mattress, catching his breath with his eyes closed. I don't want to move for fear I might disturb the moment. As is his way, Peeta extends the perfect gesture to reflect our heightened emotions.
Touching my trembling fingers to his lips, he presses them there a prolonged moment before opening his eyes and finding mine. "Another memory they can never distort," he spoke. "Real or unreal?"
"Real," I smile, pushing his damp curls away from his eyes. "A perfect memory without any shine."
"No," he agrees, "just a flawless shade of orange."
The sheet is found and drug across the bed to cover us both. I settle in against Peeta's secure frame with a drowsy, content certainty that I will find sleep again before the sun rises. Sunday, a day of rest without work, I am thankful for it. I have no intentions of leaving that bed for many hours to come.
Peeta's deep breathing gives away his inability to stay awake and I smile, snuggling closer and closing my own eyes. No, there will not be any more nightmares for us that night. There is nothing to run from, we are already home.