Author's Note: Don't worry, Lone Star State of Mine is coming soon - but this little one-shot is for Prompts in Panem over on Tumblr. It's for Round Three:Day Six, Canon Locations. If you guys are looking for some great Everlark stories you really need to check it out! I'm on Tumblr with the URL fourfinick if you want to find me. This is my first ever entry for PIP so I'm terribly nervous. I hope this is even half as good as the ones I've read. Not beta-ed by anyone but myself, so all mistakes belong to me.
Summary: You'll never fully understand her. You're not sure you even want to, but it's always the little things that bring you back.
Little Things
As you clench the back of the chair you can feel the angry taking over. It's a hot, burning angry that you know is something beyond human emotion. It's like poison being pulsed into your veins while they wait for you to break entirely. Flashes of the past come to your mind like vivid photographs. You see your cold, sterile room at the Capitol. You see Darius' blood strung out across the once clean room. You hear Johanna's pained screams. You hear them telling you of the terrible things Katniss Everdeen – the mutt –has done to you. You feel a sense of relief when you picture yourself wrapping your fingers around her neck. Feeling her pulse quicken against your fingertips. Hearing her strained voice calling your name. Begging you.
Peeta.
And then you remember something entirely different.
You remember the first time she ever said your name. You remember how small you were, no older than seven. You remember how sweet she looked walking toward you in your small classroom. She wanted to borrow one of your colored pencils. You were only seven, but you were mesmerized. The smile she gave you when you offered the coloring devices was brief but strong enough to be sired into your mind.
And soon the color starts to come back to your knuckles and your breathing begins to even out. Your mind is no longer pushing you to a world that isn't real, but allowing you to look around this one. This small life you live in District 12. This small life that would not have been if she hadn't fought for you. If she hadn't believed she could pull you out of the darkness you had become. The darkness that still lingers.
She's beside you, like she always is. She's quiet as she watches the storm come over you and she's quiet as she allows you to let it fade on your own. She's learned over time that she can't help you. That you're so very close to the edge that any movement she makes to sooth you could send you in the other direction. And you'd both be lost.
But as soon as the storm subsides you feel her hands on your shoulders, urging you to turn toward her. You are weak, but she's your strength and you do it willingly. You feel her hands on your cheeks as her forehead rests against your sweat covered one. The closeness is what you need. The stillness in moments like these help you remember what's real. Sometimes you'll mumble questions you need her to answer in her usual way, but for the most part you focus on letting your breathing become even like hers.
Your eyes are closed, but you know she's watching you. She's making sure you come back to her because she needs you like an anchor. She needs you to keep her from falling into the abyss of memories she spends most of her nights fighting. And you need her like a beacon of light in the distance. You need her presence to remind you that you're bent, but not broken; that you're both healing and you can only do it together.
Your baking sheet hits the wooden floor with an echoing crash. But your mind is already gone before the sound fills your small shop. Fortunately it's early and none of your patrons are there to witness your darkness take over. Normally you can remain still and force yourself through it, but there are occasions when the anger takes over like a knee-jerk reaction and you're forced to be a terrible side of yourself. A side that you refuse to believe exists until you see the aftermath.
The flour jar flies across the kitchen and hits the wall. Flour rains over, blanketing your angry in a thin layer of white. Your baker's rack is the next victim and gets tossed to the ground with one slid of your arm. Fortunately you've learned to put all sharp objects away as soon as you're finished with them. An ugly scar still remains on your left forearm from the day you became careless. You're just thankful it was to yourself and no one else. Yourself and not her. Her. The one who, in this darkness, is the reason for all the chaos that rages inside of you. The one who you picture yourself killing when your deepest anger takes over.
This time you're close enough to her face to see the way her pupils dilate with fear. The way they bounce across your face in silent pleading to stop. The way her cheeks redden from distress. The way her mouth bobs open from time to time, but no words come out. Her forced breath tingles your features and you find it thrilling to have this much control and power over the person who has done this to you. Who has caused this torture. Then your eyes focus on her lips. You're close enough to see the small pieces of skin that show how chapped they are.
And then you remember something entirely different.
You remember the beach. You remember your complete willingness to give your life for her. How peaceful you felt as you asked her not to give her life for you. How at ease the words fell from your lips. How at peace you were with death because that meant she could go on. How the thought of her going on with her life didn't make you ache to be a part of it, but gave you a sense of satisfaction. How the idea of your family going on without you didn't even phase you. It didn't phase you that you wouldn't be missed because you would be living out your purpose: your purpose to get her home. Because no one there needs you like they need her. And they do need her.
But you're wrong.
She tells you so in the simplest of terms; she needs you. And something is ignited in you. At one time that would have sent you over the edge, but now you're cautious because you've learned, like life, emotions are fickle. But for right now she needs you and it's enough to keep you fighting for awhile longer. Because, you hadn't told her this, but you'd already made it your mission to protect her as long as you could knowing it would bring about your inevitable death. And that was okay because a lone lover welcomes death like an old friend.
You're not sure who leans in first, but when your lips connect it's a quiet burn. You can feel the roughness of the chapped nature of both of your lips and it sooths you. It's real and it's not perfect. But you are not perfect. You are both the farthest thing. Your situation may seem like a tragic train wreck to those who watch – and maybe it is, but it's all you've ever known. And for you it's the most you could ask for. You aren't greedy, you know your time on this awful earth is probably short, but she makes it better somehow.
When her arms wrap around your neck, you deepen the once unsure kiss. You forget about the games. You forget about the alliances. You forget about the fact that most of your love story has all been for the cameras. And you try to forget about the small nudge in you that wonders if this is just another part of that. But then she pulls away, only far enough to look into your eyes, and you know its not. Her breathing is shallow and her lips are swollen from yours. And her eyes give her away. She's completely forgotten about everything else as well. It's enough to make you feel the need to reach for her again, those mere inches too much space between you.
And she allows it.
Slowly the offending thoughts begin to fade as your memories battle for dominance in your mind. Your vision clears as you lean against the old counter. You keep your eyes focused on something, fearing that any sudden movement might cause the darkness to find you again. You let yourself remember everything you can about the beach. How the sand seemed to get everywhere. How you laughed at Finnick suggesting you try to build some kind of castle out of such tiny grains. How Katniss looked in the sunset. How that time of day still remains your favorite even back in District 12. How warm the sun felt against your skin. How there was a small piece of beauty in the ugliness that was the arena.
How she came home with you.
The worst part is cleaning up after the darkness. Sometimes it's facing the people you hurt. Sometimes it's coming to turns with the memories you'll forever have. Sometimes it's remembering to honor those who can't stand beside you anymore. Sometimes it's simply sweeping up the broken glass and flour.
Paint splatters across the porch as your grip the picture in front of you. The paper bunches beneath your hands and the parts that have yet to dry rub off on your palms. You don't notice though as your mind becomes the battlefield you're so used to. The water sitting next to you tips over as you try to move. Try to do anything to keep yourself in this world, but it doesn't matter. Soon you've fallen to the floor, still clutching the painting, and you're completely lost.
She's there, because she always is. She's fighting you this time, but it's no use. She's strong, but you're stronger. Her eyes aren't afraid like they usually are. No, now she is angry. She's angry with you and she's fighting back because she's the enemy. She's a strong enemy. Not the weak, unsure one that the Capitol tried to paint for you. And that makes you fight harder because you are a failure if you can't kill this mutt. You've somehow managed to cause a small cut on her forehead and the blood is starting to run down between her eyes and atop her nose.
And then you remember something entirely different.
You remember the tour of the districts. You remember how much you hated all of it because this was another way they were making you something you never wanted to be: a piece in their game. You were paraded around like some sort of trophy and a reminder to everyone in every district that the Capitol's hold on them was forever strong. There were moments when you thought death would be more bearable. But those were usually the moments she'd remind you, even though you tried to be angry with her, that she was your beacon of light.
It's a quiet morning on the train as you travel. Haymitch is still in his compartment sleeping off the night before and Effie is – well, God only knows where Effie is. You're having breakfast with her, but there aren't any words shared between you. You've both made an unspoken agreement not to speak of the nights because that's when you're at your weakest. Both of you. She needs you to hold her. She needs you to be her warrior against the nightmares. You need to hold her to know she's still there and not some lost memory. It's a routine you both need. It's a routine that's never once been spoken of.
You're not really hungry so you stir your tea continuously. She's in the middle of eating one of the many sweet rolls that they offer. The one she has chosen this morning is covered in a thick layer of powdered sugar, something she's never had much of. You can tell because whenever such an item is placed out to eat she reaches for it. She likes powdered sugar. You add that to your list of things she likes because one day you hope to be the one to give her all of them.
The bite she has just taken leaves a small spot of the thin powder placed on her nose and you can't help but smile. At first she doesn't notice your expression and continues to eat, only adding to the spot. When she finally looks up at you she looks confused, if not slightly annoyed. She hates being the last to know and in this moment she knows she is. You don't say anything; just pull the napkin off your lap and reach across to remove the smudge.
You take a mental note of the fact that she doesn't flinch away like she tends to do when others reach for her. Even if it's in the slightest. But this morning she remains still as she watches you come toward her with the napkin. And she even gives a rare laugh when she realizes what you've done. Your eyes are locked together for a moment and you swear you see some of her high walls start to crumble. But you know before the tour is over something will build them back up again. That's okay because you have this moment. And this moment is enough.
The first thing you feel is the stickiness of the damp paint beneath your hands as you start to come back. You stay focused on the peaceful silence you felt between you two on the train. Like always, you keep yourself still as the haze clears and you come back. She's watching you. She's waiting for you to let her know you're there. That it's really you.
Finally you blink several times and twist your head toward her. She smiles because you've come back to her. She never tells you, but you know every time this happens it causes her to fear that this will be one that she loses you completely. You promise her that it won't happen, which maybe you shouldn't do. But you know it won't. Her presence is too strong in you not to come back to her. Slowly she walks toward you and helps you back into your chair, taking the crumpled painting from your hands before starting to clean up the mess you've made.
You don't deserve her. You don't deserve her steady constant self. You'd tell her that, but that's an argument you'd never win.
Gripping the cool texture of the bathroom sink helps you remain in control for a moment longer, but it's not lasting and before long you're gone. You've forgotten about the water running in the sink, the toothbrush that has dropped from your mouth, and the fact that you're looking into your own reflection.
All you can see is your hand wrapped around her throat once more. This is a usual vision, but it's still one that haunts you in your dreams. Her face is pale and you know she's about to lose all consciousness. Her eyes are searching your face, silently begging you like she always does. Her lips are pressed tight and her nostrils are flared. Her hands come up to grip your forearms, her nails digging into the flesh there.
And then you remember something entirely different.
You're at home in District 12. The cool night air is flowing through your windows, allowing the old curtains to sway rhythmically. Even with the cooling breeze your skin, and hers, is covered in a thin layer of sweat. Your lips are painting a trail down her jaw and neck until you land on the dip in her collarbone. You nip there, knowing it's one of her most sensitive spots. You reveal in the fact that you're the only person on earth to know that; that you're the honored one to continually find new places that become her favorite.
Her hands have found purchase on your shoulders and you're about to continue your journey south for the second time that night, but she stops you. She's had enough of your teasing and you can't help but smirk in the darkness. You like when she's impatient. You like that her need for you is so strong she can no longer wait. She lets her hands cup your face and pull you back to her. The kiss you share is hungry and full of the promises to come. It's nothing like those first few nights together. Although you'll always remember them fondly, you love this side of her. This side that knows what she wants and she wants you.
When your hand slides down her side you make sure to allow your fingertips to ghostly trace down her warmed flesh. Her quiet moans assure you you're doing it right. And when your hand finally finds the bottom of her thigh, you pull it up around your waist. The sheet that was once protecting you both from the evening breeze has slide off and you shiver. Her hands, like your free one, are on a mission to explore every part of you she can reach.
And when you slide into her it's like sliding home. Her cries of pleasure mingle with yours. You two were made for each other and its passionate moments like this that allow you to believe it. To believe that even though life is hard, you're here with her. That your life has not, and will never be, easy but it will always bring you two together. It's in moments like these that she allows herself to be completely vulnerable to you. The way she grips you tells you she'll always need you. The way you continually praise her tells her its always been her.
Just as she falls over the edge her nails dig into the slick flesh of your shoulders and brings you with her. The moment is personal, like they always are. The moment is one that neither of you want to recover from, but you have peace in knowing it'll happen again.
The feeling of the cool water splattering up against your shirtless stomach is the first thing you begin to feel as you come back. Your hands have started to tingle from how tight you gripped the sink, but your breathing has already evened out as you reach for toothbrush again. When you look back up into the mirror, she's standing in the doorway with a small smile. Her arms are wrapped around her frame and you know she's seen your episode, but she never faults you for them. You ask her why she doesn't and she says it was because you never faulted her for her terrible nightmares. But her terrible nightmares were never to cause you harm. There's a part of you that will never forgive yourself for not being strong enough to fight them off completely.
But when she wraps her arms around your waist and you feel her lips against the sensitive skin of your neck you know you don't have to be. You don't have to be strong enough to fight them away completely because you'll always have these little moments to help bring you back.