"You know, I can't decide if you think I'm a weakling or if your throwing arm just needs some work," I call after catching the now-charred apple in my hand seamlessly. We've been bouncing it off the force field that encases the roof of the training center for a while now. Peeta started it while we were sitting together on a soft blanket, snacking. No doubt he was thinking about Haymitch's stunt with the axe in his Games when Peeta tossed the apple lightly towards the edge of the roof, only for it to bounce right back towards him. He did it a couple more times, and then shifted the angle so it came my way. I did the same and it became a game.
Peeta raises his eyebrows now at my comment, a smile playing on his lips. "You're asking for it, Everdeen. Don't go crying to Haymitch once you're covered in applesauce."
I wink at him, which seems to take him slightly aback. He catches the apple that I've just bounced towards him, but barely.
"Bring it on, Baker's Boy," I challenge.
He chucks the apple high towards the edge of the roof, and it's coming at me with newfound velocity. I grin and manage to jump and kick the apple back at the field. I know I've broken the peel when I see juice droplets dot the ground. I'm hoping that it will rupture completely when Peeta catches it so he'll eat his words, but he's thinking one step ahead of me. He punches it towards me brusquely, with so much force that apple chunks fly across the roof and land on me. In my hair, on my shirt. He's cracking up.
I look up, eyes wide, and realize it's all over him too. We're both laughing now.
He walks over to me, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "I guess that wasn't the smartest move," he admits. "But I can't say I regret it."
I'm still smiling, glad we're somehow able to have a little fun despite how treacherous our circumstances are. I'm brushing the bits apple off the top of my head. Peeta picks off part of the peel that's clinging to the fabric at my waist, but since my arms are up and the shirt is pressed against me, I feel his fingers close gently on my skin.
I spring away a squeaky sound leaves my lips without my permission. I clear my throat in a weak attempt to disguise the noise, but it's too late. I've been too obvious. Peeta is staring at me, wonderstruck, like he's just dug up gold. I can't help but feel defensive. I cross my arms and glare at him. "What?" I snap, apple juice dripping into my eyebrow.
"Nothing," he replies. But he's fighting a smile. I narrow my eyes at him.
"You're ticklish," he says. And now he's grinning.
"So, what?" I say.
"So, nothing. How did I not know this already?" He seems genuinely perplexed. "I can't believe I haven't done it before."
I don't understand what he's getting at or why this even merits acknowledgement. I glare at his hands, which are entirely too close to my midsection. "And you won't," I say brusquely. "I don't like being tickled."
I might eat dirt before I ever mentioned this to him, but I actually used to love it as a kid, when my father would chase me around the house only to eventually trap me in his arms and poke my ribs. Besides the occasional playful jab from Prim, though, no one has tickled me since then. And I really don't like how satisfied with himself Peeta seems to be that he's discovered this. It feels like he's got something over me.
Fortunately, though, he seems to relent. "Okay."
We decide to go ahead and eat again. He offers to set everything up for us while I clean up. I wet some napkins and clean the stickiness of my face and arms, and then head back over to him and sit. He's set out a couple bowls of a pink frothy soup, buttery, herb-roasted potato wedges with juicy chunks of chicken, and fluffy white rolls. A couple slices of a rich chocolate cake. Some metal cans that hold a cherry-flavored, fizzy beverage. The first time I tried the drink—Effie called it soda—I was so surprised by the sensation of the bubbles that it almost came out my nose. But after a few sips, I decided I liked it.
The meal is so wonderful, and knowing that we still have several hours to ourselves puts me in an irrationally blissful state of mind. Peeta is leaning back on his elbows, soaking in the sun.
I suppose I should have known better than to believe he ever would have let this tickling thing go so easily. But, like a fool, I've let my guard down and am lying down on a blanket, closing my eyes, feeling the warmth of light against my eyelids, when I feel his fingers run across my stomach quickly.
My eyes shoot open and I yelp again, shoving his hand away. "Stop!" I shout, trying hard to look angry. But he's laughing, and seems so elated by this new information about me that it's contagious. I have to try to hide my smile.
"I can't help myself," he croons.
"Why?" I demand.
He just shakes his head and turns to watch the sky, the trace of a dimple still on his cheek.
He does stop, at least for now, but the twinkle in his eyes when he looks at me for the next few minutes is unsettling. Why is he acting this way? After thinking about it for a little bit, it occurs to me that more than once I've seen boys at school squeezing girls at their waists and laughing when they jump and giggle. It's a flirting thing. I hate that I can feel my cheeks get hot once I realize that my being ticklish is something that appeals to Peeta. I will myself to regain my composure.
But of course, he notices. And of course, he's grinning again.
To my surprise, he doesn't say anything to tease me. Instead, he rises and retrieves a pencil and a notepad. "I'm going to sketch you," he says.
I watch him quizzically as he gets to work. But I like watching him draw, and this is probably the last time I will ever see it, so I scoot closer to him and lean against a heap of blankets. His eye for detail is remarkable. Soon enough, I'm there on the notepad. Smiling up at him. He's shading sections in, adding dimension to the image. He darkens my cheeks slightly. A blush.
I raise an eyebrow at him.
"It was sweet," he says. "And your blushes are a rarity of sorts. I wanted to capture it."
Our eyes meet for a second and it suddenly feels like I'm on my tiptoes with nervous anticipation. Only it doesn't make sense, because I'm sitting down. And what do I have to be nervous about? He leans in, but it's only to kiss my forehead. His lips are soft and warm, the gesture so tender and pleasant. He lingers there for a minute and I close my eyes, trying to cling to the blissful moment before he pulls away.