Love is a Four Letter Word
Author: Drew Demeter
Pairings: Katniss/Peeta
Rating: T to be safe
Summary: He told himself it was over. That he didn't love her anymore. So why did he take her in every time she came crawling to his door?
Warnings: mention of self-harm, depression, maybe some mild language
Disclaimer: As always, I do not own the Hunger Games or any of the characters you recognize from the books.
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This time I won't give in so easily, I told myself. This time, when she comes straggling up to my door in the pouring rain, drunk and sniveling about how sorry she is, I'll slam the door right in her face.
She owes it to me; hell, I owe it to me.
Because every time she comes, every morning I wake up to find that she's not there, right beside me, where I left her last night, my heart breaks a little more, irreparable and ragged from so much pain these past few months. I've considered ending it all, going into the kitchen and using that one knife that slices through bread so cleanly. But I always stop myself, because I care about her too much. Too damn much to leave her in this world where killing is considered sport and hunger is part of life. No, I can't bring myself to do that to her.
I think that's why, when she comes to my door once again, keeled over and wiping her tear stained eyes on her dirty shirt, I have to take her in again. Even though it kills me, I'm afraid that seeing her hurt and alone would break me into a million pieces, even more damaged than I am now.
She pulls me up the stairs, stumbling and muttering incoherently. She knows the way to my room almost as well as I do now. In the middle of the hallway, her legs give out and she sprawls in a heap on the floor, dry heaving. And, like always, I stay with her. Because that's what friends do. And even if she doesn't consider me a friend anymore, I know I could never forget about her.
Once the heaving is over, we resume our steady pace to the bedroom. My bed is unmade and my room is dark, the shutters pulled down. I live with my own demons here. Half walking, half leaning on me, she drags me into the bed, pulling the covers up over us. She smells like the white liquor she has so clearly been drinking.
Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her, holding her back to my chest and feeling her heart beat under my callused fingers. She sighs in contentment and snuggles closer to me, asleep within minutes.
I lay awake though, dreading the moment when sleep will come, dreading the sunrise. I know from past times that, although the nightmares cease when I am with her, the truth always remains, however hard I try and push it away. Just like the love for her resurfaces every time we sleep together at night, the pain always comes again in the morning when I open my eyes and she's not there.
So instead, I try and concentrate on the rhythm of our breathing, the feel of her hair against my face, the warmth our bodies share. All of these stolen memories, forbidden I know, but all I have left to hold on to.