© in a little house by the sea
The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins
Peetato
A cool, misting rain fell, which was not unusual for September in District 2, a city geographically north of certain parts of the Capitol and in the bosom of Mother Nature.
Despite the chilly weather, Peeta Mellark was walking. He could have called for a taxi, but after jerking into awake by nightmares in the early morning, he preferred the open air and to be left alone. Wearing a black long coat, he passed a fancy hotel which mainly built from glasses, man-made lake that had fountains spraying jets of water in the middle, a warm-looking coffee shop where he could see a young, happy couple had taken residency in.
Young love, Peeta thought bitterly.
He arrived at the florist and wiped his boots on a thatched mat that read WELCOME. Noticing a small camera above the doorframe, he instinctively brushed his ashen blonde hair off his forehead, and looked into the lens. After a minute with no response, he let himself in.
The warmth of the florist was almost smothering. Unlike other shops, this shop kept a simple look. Its walls were paneled in glass to allow the sunlight streaming in. Rows of various flowers had claimed almost every space in the shop. A cluttered counter with bouquets of flowers held a welcome sign.
"Ah, Peeta. Welcome, welcome, welcome!"
The florist, a tall woman with pale skin, pink eyeliners, red lips, and vibrant green hair cascading down her shoulders, stood with her lips curling into a wide smile. She appeared to be in her late thirties.
"Come to buy flowers again?" she asked in her thick Capitol accent.
It was a ridiculous question with an obvious answer. Peeta gave her a thin-lipped smile, having no heart to scoff at her. Had Cato been there, he would've rolled his eyes with arms crossed over his broad chest, and thrown a snarky comment.
The smile almost slipped off of his lips.
No, no. Cato wasn't here with him. No, no.
"You alright, Peeta boy?"
Peeta snapped open his eyes wider to the florist who had her hand landing on his right shoulder with a flicker of concern in her brown eyes. Right, he was in the shop. Peeta collected himself and took her hand in his, offering her a tiny smile.
"I'm fine. Thanks though."
"You sure?"
"Never been so sure before," he said.
There was a beat of silence. From her pinched look, Peeta knew he hadn't convinced her, but now it didn't matter because there was no word could describe how far from fine he was. His sanity was beginning to slip away every time he woke up to a cold, vacant space on the other side of the bed, and if he was being completely honest to himself, he was surprised how well he was holding by far and kept the strong façade judging by the times he had shrunk in the corner alone whenever the nightmares invaded his sleep.
"Oh well, I've made a special bouquet for you two today," she said as she swung on her high-heel towards the counter.
Peeta fell into her clicking steps, ignoring the ache in his chest at her mentioning 'you two'. Her finger danced in the air while she considered each bouquet under her breath.
"Ah, found you." She picked up one of the bouquet, a small one, and handed it to him.
Peeta blinked at the white bouquet in his cradle. He noticed they were actually consist of small-lobed flowers. "What are these?"
"Incorporating of lily of the valley, sweet william and hyacinth," she told him. "Each of them conveys their own hidden message. Like sweet william here, it means courage. Hyacinth means constancy of love, and lily of the valley return of happiness. They'll pray for your happiness, my dear Peeta, " she explained with a soft smile, her tone gentle as if she, too, was whispering a prayer for his happiness.
For Peeta's happiness.
For Cato.
Peeta stared at her, mouth hanging open a little, then at the bouquet. "I..." his voice trailed off as he thought of Cato in his hospital bed, of his loneliness he'd endured, of her kindness she offered to him since he first had stepped into this shop six months ago.
He bit down on his bottom lip, hard. "...thank you," he managed, holding the bouquet tightly to his chest, a fraction beneath snapping it.
"Welcome, my dear. We both know you boys need this."
Peeta swallowed thickly to clear the lump from his throat. Was it too obvious? He knew he'd shut people out to find solace in his isolation (poor, poor Clove) in sporadic occurrence, whenever the depression came crashing in, but he never broadcasted it to this sweet, sweet lady.
—he thought.
"Don't worry, my dear Peeta. Everything will be alright," she assured him with a pat on his shoulder.
His chest hurt but Peeta let his lips curl into a smile, his eyes relax without any wrinkles, cracking a genuine smile like he'd done this million times that he was able to dip into it as he desired in spite of the turmoil of emotions inside of him.
After the transaction, Peeta left the shop with the bouquet. He tried carrying it one-handed, but that felt too casual. He clasped it to his chest, arms crossed, the way a child carries a book bag. He walked this way for half a mile through the street, his heels splashing through rainwater. When he came upon a bench in front of the post office, he sat down, still cradling the bouquet.
The rain was still pouring. It was getting heavier for each passing seconds. More people flocked into the nearest buildings, but not the post office since it offered so little protection, so he was alone.
He watched the hovering grey clouds in the skies. His coat was drenched and he was shivering in cold. He hugged himself to seek warmth and closed his eyes. He imagined Cato nudging against him with a familiar smirk on his face, his blue eyes to him, before wrapping his massive arms around him, his muscular body towering over him as Cato nested his chin on top of his head, whispering silly Loverboy in his deep voice.
My silly Loverboy.
But, no, Cato wasn't with him. There was no Cato, no whisper. There was only the bouquet and cold. He was all alone.
Peeta sat on that bench for a long while, a lonely, shivering boy with flowers of hope, waiting for the rain to stop.
...-...-...
Peeta stared out at the bleak hospital parking lot from a small window for the hundredth time, wishing he could see something new, some sign of hope beckoning from an invisible horizon. Instead, all he could see was fading light over cars and concrete in the still pouring rain. It seemed to be fading inside too, temporarily softening the usually sterile setting in which Cato now slept.
He turned towards Cato's bed. Cato was breathing quietly, the oxygen mask whooshing in the silence while the droning beeps kept trickling. Cato seemed to be comfortable, as though trying not to disturb the peace, maintaining a gentle dignity opposing his boisterous, arrogant nature.
Peeta went to the table to replace the flowers in the transparent vase with the bouquet he brought along. The daffodils were sagged against the vase, its leaves and petals ranging from white to brown, an evident of being left alone without proper care. An evident that no one longer cared about them, about saying anything to support them as the time passed, and like the light in that room, they simply faded away.
He finished replacing the flowers and tossed the wilted daffodils into the bin. Peeta pulled up a chair and sat in it. He stared at Cato's serene look, the scars on his face gradually fading into the skin gradients, as if the Capitol tried to erase any evidence from the Hunger Games.
He wondered if the huge gash on the back of Cato's head had fully healed.
Clove walked briskly into the room until she was at the bedside, by his side, stirring up the silence with her harshness and pounding boots. She had a scowl on her small face, her hair pulled up into ponytail, and was dressed in the fitting Academy uniform underneath the black, loose hoodie jacket.
"Hey, the boy with the bread," she greeted him, her tone sharp.
Peeta smiled at the nickname. He got the nickname from helping his parents running their bakery. The nickname gave warmness in her voice despite the tone and look. "Hello to you too, Clove."
"How's the big guy?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest, her brown eyes to Cato.
"Still asleep."
A silence settled over the room, occasionally broken by the beeping sound.
She spoke again. "Don't you think he's slept for way too long?"
"He can't help it."
Clove snorted. "He promised to be my mentor when he won the game. I wanna volunteer for the next game, and I believe he has a promise to keep."
"Clove, he can't help this."
"He must become my mentor. I won't accept Enobaria or Brutus. It must be Cato," she emphasized. "He must wake up now!"
"Clove, he can't just wake up and teach you stuff. It's not that easy."
"Bullshit!" she snarled, fisting her hands to her sides. "Don't fucking gimme that 'he can't help it' and shit! I know Cato! Hell, I've been stuck with him since forever! He won't let this stupid brain injury to stop him! He's too arrogant—"
"—he'll wake up, someday," he assured her. "I promise you."
She was upset, Peeta got that. Clove and Cato had been sharing a platonic relationship since they were young before going to the same schools; Clove being two years younger, and Cato had grown slightly protective of her and constantly looming over her in her life, so he knew Cato held a brother figure in Clove's eyes.
"Don't lie to me!" she screamed. "Stop lying to me! Stop lying to yourself! Just stop this stupid drama! Why?! I don't get it. How can you be so fucking calm about this?! He's been sleeping since forever—"
"—six months."
"—I don't fucking care about that! The point is you - we both - have suffered for far too long, and he's there, just sleeping peacefully, not giving a single fuck about us and—!"
Right then, Peeta held her in his embrace. Clove was struggling to break free, yelling against his chest, punching at his arms, but Peeta wasn't going to let her go, not when he felt his shoulder wet, not when he felt Clove so small and fragile in his arms, opposite of the tough Clove she often displayed in the public.
At last, what he felt like forever, the tantrums finally stopped, and it left her sobbing, her small, dainty hands which often clutched knives, now bracing on his much larger shoulder blades, her face in his chest, her breathing fast and shallow, and Peeta let the silence take over the room, his eyes glued to the man who he thought, was responsible for their miserable life.
Just a broken moment, he allowed sadness crushing over them.
"Do you love him?" she asked, her words muffled into his chest.
"Hm?"
"Cato. Do you love Cato?"
"Now that's a silly question," Peeta let out a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to his ears. "Of course, I do. Even though his arrogance always gets on my nerves, I still love him."
"Then, how do you do it?"
"Pardon me?" Peeta was baffled.
"How can you be so calm about this? How do you so easily forgive him after making you suffer?"
Peeta pulled away from the hug. "Clove, he hasn't done anything wrong. There's nothing to be forgiven."
"You can fool anyone but me, the boy with the bread," she said sternly, her words mostly disorientated by her wiping tears away. Clove looked him in the eye when she was done. "I've seen you trembling. I've seen you curling up under the duvet. I've heard you screaming out Cato's name in your sleep. I've seen you have nightmares. So don't lie to me. You took this far worst than what you let people see."
Peeta remained quiet. So Clove could see through him, but it doesn't mean he was willing to let Clove leaf through his mind and emotions.
"It's hard," he admitted. Harder than anything else, knowing he's there right by side, and yet feel so far away from my reach, the latter, however, had gone unsaid. "But I can't just mop around about it, can I?"
"You don't have to pretend," Clove said, sternness starting to slip into her voice. "You don't have to hold yourself. You have me—"
"And for that, thank you," he smiled, and that was the end of their discussion. "I'm doing just fine."
"Peeta—"
"Aren't you already late for your training session?" Peeta pointed out, looking up at the clock on the white wall to switch the subject.
As on cue, her eyes followed him, and Clove uttered a curse under breath. She turned around, her ponytail swishing smoothly in the motion, and took a several strides to the door, then stilled in the doorway, hesitation on her face. "Just now, I... thank you."
If Peeta were to list down the quality Clove and Cato shared, it'd be their reluctance of expressing their gratitude vocally. Since he had this rare chance, Peeta filed it away in his mind and nodded. "You're welcome."
"Don't tell anyone about it, not even to Cato." Her brows lowered over her eyes sharply.
"I won't."
And then she disappeared into the hallway, along with the pounding footsteps.
When her footsteps were out of his earshot, Peeta took a chance at sitting on the bed by Cato's hip, one leg dangling over the bedside, carefully not to brush anything and avoiding the transparent tubes that were attached to Cato.
Cato's eyes were shut close tightly. Peeta tried to picture the color of Cato's eyes behind the closed eyelids, but he couldn't for so long he hadn't seen them. The last time he had seen them on live, when Cato was crowned as the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games, his blue eyes bright in the dark, night sky, his face full of scars and dirtied by blood, his body limping against the Cornucopia.
At the moment, relief was too bland a word for what Peeta was feeling.
Until it was shattered by Cato's sudden collapse just a minute before the hovercraft arrived to fetch him.
Peeta felt a phantom blow punch him in the gut, the morbid feelings creeping up on him. His loved one, who had occupied his mind and in his prayers for days, had collapsed before his own eyes and yet his hands couldn't reach him to catch him before touching the ground.
The Gamemakers and doctors had desperately tried their best to save their reputation because no one enjoyed to see their Victor laying in hospital bed like a corpse. However, no matter how advance the technologies they had, or how extensive the medical research they had probed, they barely scratched the brain complications.
No one could wake Cato up from his coma. Not even the mighty President Snow.
Peeta shoved the memories into the corner of his mind where he layered them with less important priorities, so he wouldn't think about them then suffer alone. It worked while he was awake, having a complete control over the imaginary walls so they wouldn't escape.
But the nightmares often betrayed him. The black creeping veins would tear the walls apart, and he'd find himself gasping in horror with the thought of Cato dying on him torturing his mind. Cato's blue eyes would flash over, pain in those orbs, a whisper of his name, and Peeta would jackknife upright on his bed, sweating profusely.
Just like what he'd had in this morning.
Peeta curved over Cato, his hand on Cato's shoulder, chewing on his bottom lip before hovering his lips above Cato's forehead.
"Hey, there," he whispered, feeling his lips grazing Cato's skin. He could choose to sit in the chair and hold Cato's hand while talking to him, but he liked this better. It was more intimate, and this way, he could feel Cato's warmth enveloping him.
The warmth he'd missed so much.
"Clove came dropping by just now."
No response.
"I think you've figured that out from her loud footsteps and scream, but I guess, I wanna tell you that."
Still no response. Peeta held back the sigh that was worming its way out. No, he wouldn't let that happen. Sigh means give up, and he would never give up on Cato.
"I bought you flowers today. Lydia recommended them for me. She said they could pray for your health, for us."
Peeta could imagine Cato's frown and scorn. Cato never liked flowers. Too girly to his liking, he'd once commented.
But Cato remained stilled. No frown, nor creases marring his forehead to show that he was frowning. Cato was still asleep.
"It sounds stupid and too girly, I know. You can get up now and throw them into the bin, I wouldn't care or get mad."
No reaction from Cato.
"So more flowers for you, then."
No retort or protest. Peeta bit down on his lip to hold back the tears, hoping the pain soothed the throb in his chest. No, he must stay strong for Cato. But the silence was killing him.
"Please say something."
Silent.
"Say something, Cato. A snark, or a stupid comment, I don't care. Just say something," he pleaded. "I won't get mad, I promise."
Silent.
"Please?" he begged, his hand on Cato's shoulder holding tighter.
No answer.
Peeta felt desperation and anger flared up in him. He pulled away and glared at the sleeping man. Cato remained quiet.
"I've endured your silence for months. I've spent many nights without you. I've had nightmares about you dying on me and jerked into awake alone without you by my side to comfort me. I've gone through horrible interviews, answering stupid questionsn about you. I've had a serious wrangle with the Capitol so they can keep you here. I've cried myself to sleep. I've confronted Snow and I stood up to Clove for you," he paused, blinking to clear his blurry vision.
Peeta took his time to take in the face of his loved one. "All I ask is... say something, please," he begged, his voice strangled in his throat.
Still no reaction from Cato. He seemed beyond Peeta's sense of urgency, beyond such a selfish request and didn't move. There was only stillness in the cold air and sounds of rain pelting against the window outside.
Peeta fell on top of Cato, no longer caring if he had hurt him. It'd have been better to have Cato screaming out in pain and smacking his head for the rude awakening.
But, no. Cato was still sleeping, still quiet.
And it was hurting him.
...-...-...
Peeta jolted into awake, not to the nightmare, but to a familiar tingling sensation on his back. As he was disoriented and alarmed that sleep had taken him away, he gazed around in his drowsiness, recounting everything.
Right... he was in the hospital, in Cato's room, and on top of Cato, too.
He squinted at the window. Outside, it was bright. Dawn was gathering lights for this part of waiting world, and the sky was endless and clear from the hovering clouds.
The rain had finished. The sun was rising, and its lights bathed over the flowers on the bedside table.
Peeta attempted to rise from the bed but something that had looped around his waist prevented him. He looked nose down at his waist, only to see a strong, muscular arm wrap around him firmly, and it had him felt familiar, like home.
Which had promptly brought his head up.
And stilled.
A pair of familiar blue eyes stared into his, so beautiful so clear he could see his dumbstruck reflection in them. The eyes he'd been longing to see, now were looking down at him, lit up with wonder and affection.
Peeta's heart skipped a beat.
"My silly Loverboy."
It came out raspy; a suggestion of scratchy throat after not being used for so long, and yet Peeta could hear the familiar arrogance in them. It sounded so familiar to his ears, and sounded just right. He could feel his heart flutter and warmness glow in his chest.
And for the first time... in far too long, Peeta pulled a tiny, but genuine smile.
On the table, the flowers witnessed their reunion in silence.
~Fin~