Katniss POV:

Peeta isn't the only one with scars. I know that for a fact. I have them too. They ripple along my stomach, stripe across my forearms and one sits in the middle of my fore head. Peeta thinks that they are his fault, that I'm fragile, that it's his fault that he got hijacked and tortured, and that I should never feel bad for him. I don't know why he's so embarrassed by his. He hides them from me, hoping that I will forget about them. I don't. What he doesn't understand is that we are so alike. We were both hurt by the capitol, hurt by their little game and now we both suffer from it. I don't know how else to show him that it isn't his fault. That we both have scars. That we were both hurt. And that he doesn't have to ever feel guilty.


Sleeping is one of the best remedies for pain. Physical and emotional. And after a particularly rough day in District 12, the anniversary of the day that we were bombed, that's exactly what Peeta and I do. I had fallen asleep in his arms, curled up on our couch. After an afternoon asleep, my eyes flutter open. Peeta is still sound asleep. I glance down at his hands, one on my arm, his other curled around my back. His sleeves cover his arms, but rippling scars peek out and I break a little bit, knowing that they were from the handcuffs that he used to prevent himself from killing me. I look up at his sleeping face, a scar snaking from the base of his neck to his jawline. I softly press my lips to it and Peeta wakes up. He immediately shakes his wrists, his sleeves sliding down to cover those scars. I return my head to his chest,

"You know, you aren't the only one with scars. We're more alike then you think." Peeta sits up, his hand brushing involuntarily against the scars on his neck before nodding hesitantly. He doesn't believe me. I shrug off my father's hunting jacket, revealing my bare forearms. I cover his scars with one of my own. His other hand covers the scar on my wrist.

"If I don't see them, then it's like they aren't there. If I could make you forget about them, I would. I don't ever want you to have to feel guilty, I don't ever want you to worry about me. You don't need to, you don't have to." I press a kiss to his cheek, just above a small scar.

"Peeta, I know that they are there. And if I felt guilty, it's because I love you, I care about you. You don't have to hide anything from me." Before Peeta can answer, I impulsively lean in and softly press my lips to his, silencing any words of protest, any words of guilt and pain. Breaking the kiss, he kisses the familiar scar on my forehead firmly, as if reassuring himself that I'm not as fragile as he thinks I am, that I'm really there. I press my forehead to his, so that his blue eyes are forced to train on my grey ones and I whisper,

"Believe me now?"

He smiles and I know that he does.