When I was a child, sometimes my mother and father would argue.
About little things the other had or hadn't done. About a joke, intended as a flippant remark, too far gone and too serious now to withdraw. Sometimes, they'd argue about us. About me and Prim. That hurt the most.
The first few times I'd push the angst aside, pretend it wasn't happening, tell myself they'd get over it soon.
But then one time when I was twelve and the fights had been getting really bad, my father stopped coming home at night.
Where has he gone, we'd demand of our mother? When will he be home?
At first, nothing. Then, finally, tired of our desperate pestering, she'd snap that he was sleeping elsewhere tonight, that we weren't to speak of him anymore.
We'd cry, of course, and the slightly pained look on my mother's face would play on my mind for days afterwards. But Prim would soon enough forget – how I envied her youth, her selective amnesia of the things that hurt too much to consider – and I would make an effort to distract myself. Every night, I would cry myself to sleep at the thought that my mother and father – the two happiest people in the world, it had seemed – no longer loved each other.
But then one night, as I lay awake in the dead of the night completely miserable and exhausted but completely unable to sleep, I heard the wooden door swing open at the gentlest of touches. I did not move, knowing somehow from the sense of ease I managed to attain every time I heard his familiar weight move across the floorboards and smelt his fresh pine scent, that my father was home. I listened as he creaked across the floorboards, to the low rumblings of his soothing voice as he told my mother he loved her, that he always would. I listened as he crawled into bed beside her as she, presumably, has welcomed him back into her loving arms. And then I listened no more, already fast asleep. Because I know from the peaceful silence and the fact that my father has once again managed to convince his wife that he loved her – that was what they had been arguing about this time, I remember now – that everything was going to be alright. Not only had my father convinced her, he had managed to convince me.
It is this memory that inexplicably springs to mind as I stand frozen outside Peeta's room on the train, unable to bring myself to knock or move away.
Convince me, President Snow had said. Convince him. I would rather try to convince a poisonous snake not to eat me. A hint of a smile twitches my lips when I remember that's exactly what I'm doing.
If I'm going to convince him, just as my father did to me, I decide there's only one way to do that. It isn't kissing him at dinners on the Victory Tour. It isn't our faked spontaneity, no matter how much the Capitol audience croons at that. It certainly isn't dancing with him – between us, we have three left feet and one prosthetic one, which is never a successful combination.
If I'm going to convince him, there's only one thing to do.
It's convincing myself.
While I am pondering this, the door before me opens. Peeta, on his way out, jumps back in surprise at seeing me standing in his doorway and stands stock still, gawping at me. I privately muse that the fact that I am wearing nothing but one of the very sheer, very short and for some reason very lacy nightdress that Cinna has designed for me is probably helping.
"Katniss!" He gasps. "What are you doing here? I was just heading out to get some air…" He trails off, and I can tell by the way that his brow creases minutely that the nervousness on my face is all too evident. "Katniss? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say, already turning away. "I'll go back to bed -" but before I can go, run away and hide, he had a firm grasp on my hand and is towing me inside. I shut the door behind us and do not resist him and can't help but noticing how good his fingers feel in mine.
Once inside, he pulls me to sit with him on the end of his double bed. My judgement on this bed mirrors exactly what I had thought about mine: why is it so soft? Don't the Capitol know what time they are wasting when they devote it to making their beds as soft as possible instead of bringing home food every day? I have no time to reflect on this as I realise suddenly that Peeta's gaze is currently boring a hole in the side of my head, no doubt attempting to scavenge the secret of what has shaken me so badly. Blushing, I drop my eyes and end up looking at our hands, still intertwined.
"Oh!" I say, brushing a small yellow stain on his palm with my thumb. "You were painting?"
"Yes." His reply is somewhat impatient. I drop any hopes at diverting him with this subject instantly. "Katniss, what is it? You're sweating."
Here it is. My moment. If I back out now, there may never be another time. But the words stick in my throat. What words? I don't know what I'd say even if I could speak. I want to tell Peeta… I don't know. Want him to convince me. Convince me it isn't all lies. Convince me. I try to say it with my eyes, instead, but I know from experience with Haymitch that I've never been in anyway alluring. Well, I have to Peeta, of course. Can't he teach me to feel the same thing about him? Can't I convince him?
I was never any good with words.
As the answer comes to me in a flash, my nervousness unexpectedly drains and is replaced with a steel determination that lets me meet Peeta's eyes once again. And – can it be? – a flicker of excitement glows somewhere under my stomach.
Before he or I know what is happening, I have moved from my seat beside him onto the bed to kneel over him, one leg either side of his hips. My arms are hooked around his neck.
He looks as surprised as I do at this new development.
I am even more surprised than him, though, when I realise that I like it.
"Katniss…" He stutters. "Katniss, what… what are you doing?"
I give no answer, instead leaning forward to kiss him gently on the lips. It shouldn't hurt so much when he pulls away from me. "Katniss…" He says again. I realise, now, there is a hint of sadness in the way he says my name, and his eyes refuse to meet mine. He assumes – quite correctly, of course – that this is another Game. I swallow my self-disgust with difficulty.
"Peeta." His eyes flicker back up to mine, possibly deceived by the desperation in my voice that I think – hope – he might have mistaken for desire. "Peeta, please."
That's it. The end of his resolve. My pleas, as ever, are the only thing that breaks him. I gasp in surprise when his mouth is suddenly on mine, hot like fire and twice as good, but I recover myself enough to push him back onto the bed and kiss him back. His hands meet my hips. When they later slide over my bare skin, the places that he touches will burn like an exquisite fire.
I, the real girl on fire, make no effort to silence my moans as we burn on through the night.
AN: Thank you for reading, my lovelies! I'd love it if you could review and tell me whether or not this should be a one shot or if I should continue it? I have a few ideas about where this can go if I do so I'd like to know what you think. Thank you all again!