A/N: Hi, before anything else I want you to know that English is not my first language, so pardon me if the sentences and words are too limited or repetitive and such. This isn't really something I took very seriously, just felt the urge to try and write a thing. This is basically how I imagined Katniss and Peeta's growing-back-together period. So yeah, hope you like it.

PS: It gets better, I promise. Just give it a shot?


I focus on the sound of crunching dried leaves while walking back home from my hunt.

Home.

No. I'm on my way back to my house.

The knotted muscles in my legs make me feel like I've been running for the past three years of my life, and maybe, I have. I take a seat on the slab of rock on my left, in front of the ruins of the flower shop the Carries once owned. If it were only a few weeks since we got back, I would have broken down right here at the sight of it.

Because it was my arrow that blew up the force field surrounding the Arena.

And consequently, Twelve. But it has been a few months since we were allowed to return, albeit Thirteen was happy about that. They need manpower, yes, people to work and bring back what they once had, but we were trained for a different field. It may be similar in some ways but it's not enough. Mining may also mean being underground, dangers of explosion are also apparent, but it's just not the same. I can't help but feel like I'm describing myself.

I still am Katniss Everdeen, the volunteer, the girl who was on fire, the co-victor of the 74th Hunger Games, the Mockingjay, the symbol of the rebellion, but I am, at the same time, not her.

That Katniss fought.

She always had a reason to fight, for her family, for her life, for… the boy, the rebellion. This Katniss isn't fighting anymore. I have no reason to fight. Prim's gone, even my mom, too. I don't care what happens to me. The boy's probably gone, too. The war's over.

A soft thud to my right snaps me from my thoughts. It's the stupid tomcat. "I don't have to fight for you, you're fine on your own." I tell him. He hisses at me. Nothing new. I get up and start walking again. Rubble is still everywhere, blocks of cement that used to be walls, fallen trees, lamp posts, even a few pieces of clothing that are too mangled to be worn litter the place. It's comforting. Not that it's a nice place but it's comforting to be surrounded by familiar things. The dirtiness of Twelve gives me a sense of security.

Like the arms of the boy standing a few yards away from me used to.

He whirls around before I make it inside my house. I don't know if he felt me staring at him, dumbfounded. He must have, that's why I'm frozen to my spot with my leg in midair and my jaw hanging from my mouth. He looks amused, slightly shocked too, then he gives me a small wave after he's regained his composure.

Memories of him flash by: him throwing the bread to me, looking at me, shaking my hand, me glaring at him, fixing his wound, putting my life at stake for his… Kissing him. His arms pulling me close to him after a nightmare, feeling safe afterward. Kissing him on the beach. Our foiled plan. Not seeing him at midnight. Missing him. Hiding under pipes and just thinking and worrying about him.

His hands around my neck.

My head starts pounding from all of this. There are tears threatening to fall from my eyes. I need to be alone. And so I run. I don't wave back.

I lock myself up in my room, dropping my game bag beside my bed. Pulling my knees in front of me, I let the tears flow. I haven't tried talking to him, not in months. I don't know why exactly, before I was banished we were on slightly good terms. He saved me from killing myself. That's a good thing, right?

I know he was treated at The Capitol. He should be back, but it doesn't feel right seeing him and interacting with him and waving at him again as if nothing pivotal happened between us. I curl up on my side and fall asleep with a single thought in my head: I don't know.

I wake up screaming hours later. The nightmares never stopped haunting me. In fact, they only got worse. If in the past I only dreamt of my dad, and the fallen tributes of the 74th Hunger Games, now I dream of Prim, too. Snow. Coin. Finnick. Boggs. Castor. Every now and then, Peeta.

Peeta. Peeta trying to kill me. Peeta blaming me for his family's death. Peeta not knowing me, no matter how hard I try to get him to remember. To remember me.

But I could handle that.

The only nightmare with him in it that can make me slip into a period of hysterics and a lot of crying is watching him die and not being able to do something about it. What's worse, I'm his murderer.

My shoulders shake from my sobs. Usually I stop crying after a few minutes but tonight the tears just seem to flow endlessly.

"Katniss..?"

My eyes flicker to the direction of the voice. His voice. Years could pass by but nothing could ever make me forget the voice of the only person who can silence my demons. I feel something lift from my heavy chest.

"Peeta," I whisper.

He steps inside and the moonlight coming in from the window lets me see his face. All those longing for him that I buried at the back of my mind come crawling back and suddenly the urge to embrace him fills me. So when he sits on the bed I don't ask him to leave.

"Are you okay?" he breaths out. I can't seem to find my voice so I wrap my arms around him instead. Unexpectedly, he hugs me back. "It's okay," he offers hesitantly. "It's just me."

"I know," I tell him, settling my head on his shoulder. "You're using him again," a voice from the back of my head tells me. "Don't. You have to stop taking advantage of his feelings. If he has anything left for you."

My guilt consumes me. For three years I took him for granted. I used him, his weakness when it comes to me.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Peeta." My voice cracks. I want to say more, to apologize more, to tell him that I'm really, deeply, truly sorry for all the pain I've caused him but I don't know where to start. I've hurt him for so many times. "I'm sorry," I repeat, my voice sounding like a child's.

"It's fine, Katniss."

"You don't even know what I'm apologizing for."

"It doesn't matter," he says. "You're sorry, and that's enough for me." He presses his chin against the side of my head and pulls me closer.

I've forgotten how safe he makes me feel. We've been apart for too long for me to remember.

"Why are you here, Peeta? Why only now?" I ask. I know it's me who's been pushing him away and it's selfish for me to blame those on him but at this moment, when I feel so weak and fragile, when I'm at my worst, I can't bring myself to care.

"Well, you've— we've been avoiding each other ever since we got back. First I was scared you wouldn't let me in. Then I figured I have nothing to lose." He sighs. "If you let me, then we have a shot at being friends again. If you don't, then we'd be back to refusing to acknowledge each other's presence. So… yeah."

"I'm sorry," I blurt out.

"You've already apologized. I've forgiven you. It's okay." I feel him put his chin on my head. "I'm sorry, too." Did I hear him correctly? This boy, who has literally left everything behind just to stay with me, thinks he has purposefully done something against me. I twist and face him.

"Sorry for what?" I ask.

"I str—" strangled you. He wants to say but thought better of it. "I hurt you."

My heart softens further. "It wasn't you, Peeta. I know that much."

"Can you forgive me?" he asks.

A part of me is still hurting although I truly know it wasn't his fault. Nevertheless, when I was hoping… dreaming, that he would return the affection I was about to give him, he didn't. He hurt me. Deeply. Haymitch made sure I realized that. Once when I came over his house to borrow some liquor we chatted a bit and this came up. I denied that I was hurt. He told me that people that aren't hurt do not cry for hours on end and would not sit idly for almost half the day just because she wanted to. That it wasn't normal. I left him after he said that.

So I'm not entirely sure I could forgive him right now. I've never been good at forgiving.

But this is Peeta.

The boy with the bread.

My dandelion in the spring.

Rebirth instead of destruction.

A second chance.

I want to forgive him because he did me. I put myself in his position again, like Haymitch told me to do in Thirteen so I can see things more clearly.

If I were in Peeta's place, this boy in front of me avoided me when I needed him most, when I had altered memories of him in my head to prevent me from wanting to ever spend some time with him, more importantly, to comfort him.

He's using me, I would think to myself.

Again.

Now he's apologizing.

I wouldn't.

But he would.

And so I would, too. Because if Peeta would do it, it's the right thing.

"Yes." I tell him softly. He smiles at this and pulls me even closer.

"Go back to sleep, Katniss."

"No." I blurt out suddenly, afraid of what might haunt me again if I do. I can't. I don't want to go to sleep. I shake my head, "They'll be back." I manage to say.

"I'll be here." His voice was calm, soft, soothing; it brought me a sense of steadiness I haven't felt in a while. And again, even just for a moment, I let myself believe in something again. "I promise."


From that night sprouted a new routine of some sorts that involved the two of us. I wake up early in the morning, head to the woods to hunt or to just relax. Then I go home, or I drop some game at Sae's for the small canteen she put up for the workers who are rebuilding the district. Peeta comes at noon to bring me a loaf of bread, usually a few minutes after I'm done cleaning myself up. We spend the day together. What we do varies; he sketches, then I watch him, I clean the house and he tends the garden, He bakes and I try whatever he made, oftentimes I eat more than what's for me. I apologize but he just laughs it off. Then we wash the dishes or whatever it is to be washed. He goes back to his house for the night. We let ourselves in each other's houses whenever we can't and don't want to sleep.

One afternoon, we're in one of the spare rooms together, Peeta's painting the woods and I'm watching him, then he drops his brush and palette and stands there unmoving. Panic fills me automatically. He's never had an episode before. Or at least not in my presence. I move in front of him and see his face contorted from struggling. I do what I think would help him.

"Peeta," I whisper. "It's me. Peeta." My hands place themselves on his forearms. They're tense.

"It's not real, Peeta. You're here with me. It's not real."

"It's not real," he says.

"No, it's not real." I feel him relax. He takes a few deep breaths before opening his eyes.

The look on his face is enough to make me forget the boundaries I set for myself when it comes to physical contact. I hug him.

After that night, when he came to me while I was crying, I restricted myself for fear of going too fast. We're just starting over, what we have now is all platonic. I'm afraid that I might mislead him, and he'll hate me. For now, I'm settling for this, our fragile friendship.

I help him into the bedroom, onto the bed and go fetch his pills, the ones Dr. Aurelius sends him monthly to help him recover from his flashbacks. They drain all the energy from his body, or so it seems. He lies still on the bed, his breath ragged and unsteady. He sits up when he sees me walk into the room and takes his medicine when I hand them to him.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" I ask.

"I'm not sick, Katniss. Just a bit tired."

"I know. And that's what tired people do, they sleep."

He finally relents and makes himself comfortable on our bed. Sleep comes to him almost immediately. I stay for a while and watch him. I watch as his chest rises and falls, now a steady rhythm that can lull me back to sleep even on my worst nights.

So much about him has changed. His hair, once almost burnt to the scalp, has grown back and is now covering half of his forehead. He's starting to fill out again, his cheeks only slightly less puffed than they were before the war. His scars are less obvious, too. Now they're just dashes of pinker skin spread across his body. He doesn't look like he's been whipped for a whole week straight anymore. Much has changed, yes, but my favorite is his attitude towards me. He no longer treats me like I'm the mutt who killed his family and so he has to kill me, too. I never thought that was possible. He hated me so much I almost gave up. If not for Prim, and, well, Haymitch deserves some credit too, I would have left him behind. This thought brings a blush to my cheeks from embarrassment, but I was never a completely selfless person. I know that.

Despite all the changes, a couple of things stayed the same. He still sleeps with his mouth slightly parted. His eyelashes are the same shade of blond. His nose scrunches up the same way they used to when something smells off, even when he's not awake.

I brush some of his hair away from his damp forehead and a sigh escapes me. I refuse to tell him this but I'm thankful he's here. I'm thankful his arms are back when I need them, when I need something to anchor me so I don't drift away to the land of the mad. Even his foot that he often places on top of mine when we're eating.

I'm just so glad and grateful, and a bit amazed, he's come back around.

For some reason the fingers that were on his forehead have traveled down to his lips.

His breath is enough to disrupt mine.

I pull my hand away and debate with the larger part of myself whether or not to give him a kiss on his head. I don't, and settle on simply squeezing his hand. I wriggle mine out of his, carefully, so I don't wake him up.

"Katniss," he whispered but it sounded more like a whimper.

"Yes, Peeta?" I answer.

I'm almost sure he has gone to sleep but he speaks again, asking me, in a voice so quiet and hesitant and fragile it broke the walls I built around myself.

"Stay?"

The fact that it's a question, not a command, and I could decline if I wasn't comfortable, made every string of my heart tense. It's so obvious he needs someone to take care of him after what has happened, and the other obvious thing is that I'm the only person in this damned world who is capable, and yet he is asking.

He gave me a choice, and today, I know which one to choose.

A/N: This isn't the longest chapter, I promise.

Everything is greatly appreciated.