Takes place after the announcement of the Quarter Quell.
"Peeta." I whisper in the snow, watching my breath turn to mist in the cold. My throat is raspy as if I have sandpaper on the back of my tongue. It is late into December, and the walk back to the district from the woods is full of clumsy steps and blurred vision.
Snow is sending us back into the arena.
His organ-like voice echoes in my head, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.
President Snow has guaranteed my placement by being the only female tribute of my district. Peeta and Haymitch will both have an equal chance of being reaped, dependent on what slip Effie grabs out of the bowl.
The wind gushes at my face, making my skin frozen to the touch. I run faster and faster to the fence, watching my footing for any knots hidden under the snow-covered forest floor. The fence has no buzz and I bend to go through the break.
In the Victor's Village, Peeta's house sits across from mine and Haymitch's two houses over. It seems empty. All the drapes are closed and no smoke out of the chimney. He must be coping at the bakery, maybe with his family.
My house has the lights on in the kitchen. Prim is probably cooking something for my mother, trying to digest what was announced. I feel a deep sorrow for my mother, as she delves deeper into her depression. Her daughter has a scheduled death.
It's not that I won't try. For Peeta to survive, I must make that sacrifice.
Haymitch is a specialist in Quarter Quells. He won the last one. His house smells of rotting meat and vomit before I even open the door.
I hear the familiar noise that I associate with Haymitch. The clinking of liquor bottles and grunts coming from the man. He sits in a cushioned chair, his feet on an ottoman covered in cracked leather. He is reading a government official book, something with the judicial regulations of the games.
A rug the size of my house in the Seam lays over the wood floor, its ends frazzled. Surrounding it are four chairs, covered in feathered down. Beside the lingering smell of bodily fluids, his home is comfortable.
"Oh, wow." He says with a drunken excitement. "There she is. Finally did the math, huh?" He uses his wrist to swirl the half-empty bottle. "And you are here to what- Ask me to die?"
I bite my lip because once he has said it; I realize that is what I am asking. For Peeta to live, it means Haymitch's death. Either way, District 12 will be at least one victor short by the end of the summer.
I change the subject. "I'm here to drink." I grab the neck of the bottle and throw it back. The liquid burns, it feels like fire. "How do you do that?" I ask with astonishment.
He purses his lips, "Yeah, I didn't think you could stomach it."
We sit for a few minutes. He rubs his hands up and down his bottle, eyeing his liquor cabinet for more. "So, what does it mean that Peeta was here 40 minutes ago begging to save your life and you only now show up?" He questions. It's true. I ran to the woods at the moment of the announcement.
"We have to save him, Haymitch. He can't go into the arena again. I just can't bear to-"
He interrupts. "You could live a hundred lifetimes and still not deserve that boy."
"Yeah. I know." I mutter. I can't help but think about time, and not having much left. With the games taking 23 children each year, everyone is thinking about time. But Peeta shouldn't have to. He is strong in a way no one else is, caring like no other. He can smooth over a revolution with a bandage of prose, a temporary relief to the burning uprising. "I know." I repeat, more for myself.
I collapse in a rocking chair, and push myself back and forth. "You want more?" He says tipping the bottle toward me.
"No." I cannot stand him drunk, so I can't let myself go too.
No matter what state I am in, my problems aren't going away. I begin to cry once again, feeling helpless. Haymitch rests the bottle on my kneecap in a form of endearment. He nods his head, his eyes focusing somewhere else.
"You saved me in the last games, it is his turn to get your help. That's fair." I argue.
"We both know that he isn't going to allow that."
I feel childish, as if I am forcing him to swear to secrecy. "You have to try. Do you promise?"
He sighs, "Alright, if they call his name, I'll volunteer in his place." He slurs.
"Haymitch, thank you."
"But if they call my name, you know that he's going to volunteer for me. There is nothing I can do. Let's just hope Effie's fingers choose the right card."
"You can help him in the arena like you did for me."
"These games are going to be different, Katniss."
"I don't care. Do whatever you can. Peeta lives. Not me."
I can't swallow. My throat is thick. My hands are trembling, and I know I need to find Peeta. To apologize? To be comforted? No. Because it is the right thing to do. My exhaustion ties me to my seat and I keep rocking the chair, the tears wracking my body.
"I have to find him." I assert. I step on the wood floor and it creeks below me. Haymitch smiles as he nods.
I swivel on my feet and see him. There he is, only footsteps away. He is lying face down on Haymitch's couch. His shirt hangs loosely on his back, his fingers interlaced awkwardly with each other behind him. The prosthetic that the Capitol fitted to him rests against the couch, half underneath the piece of furniture.
Coming home to District 12 after the games, we avoided each other except for the times when he would knock on my door saying a camera crew had stopped by and wanted some footage of us together. Peeta knew the love story was synthetic, and he knew that it made me uncomfortable.
On the way to the Capitol for our Victory Tour, he followed me outside after I stormed out on Effie. He agreed with my side and asked for us to start being friends. It began to feel much more natural to be with him. We admitted that we both were scheming something on the other and swore to be honest to the other.
He showed me that I am not that bad at having a conversation when he does most of the talking. He comforted me after what happened in District 11, triggering a wave of intense nightmares for the rest of the tour. I welcomed him in my bed and he held me close. It was as if he were to let me go, I would crumble to dust in his arms.
However, after the tour, we still had to act enamored with each other. Not for our families and the rest of 12, but instead for the cameras crews that would travel from the Capitol. Our families knew it was nothing romantic.
He became my closest friend.
He has been coming over to my house. We don't go to his house because of his mother. The first and last time at his house, his mother was rummaging through the cupboards and threw a bag of rice at me.
Why was she in his home? Was she stealing from his kitchen? I don't push at the idea, so instead I walked to the bakery. His dad told me that Peeta had left to cook dinner for his grandmother a few minutes ago. I asked for the address and walked there to find Peeta making bread and stirring a pot of potato and grain soup on his grandmother's stove.
I introduced myself to his grandmother, who told me that she already knew about me, which would make sense because the viewing of the games is mandatory in all districts. We sat for dinner, and she had no problem with a Seam girl in her home. I listened to her stories, of her late husband, and watching her grandchildren grow up. She read me a poem that Peeta had written for her when he was nine.
Thank you Grandma, for loving me
And kissing the scratches on my knees.
You understand when I explain my school day
And it was everything about those eyes that are gray.
Grandma, please don't hate me for having a crush on a girl
She's from the seam and has tan skin and brown hair, and at the end it curls.
She is different, I know,
And so are you.
That is just why I love you.
I knew it was about me, and Peeta blushed as we sat at the table. I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together. Grandma Sue convinced me that night that Peeta wasn't bluffing during our time in the games, or bluffing at any time at all.
And maybe Grandma Sue knew me better than what the games portrayed me to be.
We came to the agreement that we would only hang out at my house, because my mother still didn't condone of dating at such a young age and liked to keep an eye on us. Sometimes we walk the district together or we have dinner with his grandmother. And he holds my hand and wraps his arms around me in the cold even when we know no one is watching.
He taught me how to play a game with carved wooded horses and a king and queen that we would move over a checkered board. He's better at it than I am. He always thinks a few steps ahead of me.
We'd laugh over memories at school, remembering school events from a merchant's point of view and then my standpoint as a girl from the Seam.
Once, we made a batch of cookies for Prim, making a mess in my kitchen.
But he never forced any kisses on me, even when we would sit in my bed working on the plant book. He never explained his love. He never forced himself into my bed.
Now, that's what I am doing, forcing. I start to stroke the back of his head. He's sweaty and smells like Rory after hauling a deer back home in the summer. Like a boy. And the thought hits again like a gust in a windstorm, he is just a boy. A seventeen-year-old boy.
I rub his shoulder to coax him to let me see his face. He turns his neck and I see his eyes are closed; his lids look like they are covered in the glossy squirrel fat that Gale and I sell to the apothecary. His whole face is moist and red, and I get this impulse to kiss each patch of his puffy skin.
Haymitch waves his hands at me and I walk over quickly. "He's only miserable because he knows you have to go in."
And maybe it's the big gulp of alcohol minutes before that makes me push Peeta to the side of the couch as I lay down next to him. I hold him tight, encasing him in both my arms. Our faces are so close, I wonder if in any other situation if he would kiss me. Instead, he rests his forehead against mine, our noses touching. He lies on his side, rigid as a board. Is he in shock? Should I get my mother?
"Peeta," I mumble. He frowns as he adjusts his arms around me and pushes his face in my windblown hair.
"We're going to die." He retorted slowly.
That's when I lose it. I have never seen Peeta this hopeless. Not when I suggested the marriage proposal. Not when we were entering the games. Not when I told him I was faking our love story.
I put both my hands to his face and pull him out of my hair. "Hey. No we are not. There is always a way out." It feels reversed. He is usually the one holding me after a nightmare, begging me to believe it isn't real.
"There isn't a way out. One of us is going to die. Haymitch, me," he gulps, "or you."
"See it how you want, but we are fighting it." I urge. "The administration can't just walk into this thinking it is okay to kill all the victors. Snow isn't fond of us, but the Capitol is. And to calm the Capitol, he has to keep his citizens pleased." I say.
He bends his neck away from me, like he is wreathing in pain. I imagine the nerves going up his neck, electrifying pain. This is unbearable for him. "Do you really think that the Quarter Quell, which was pre-chosen years ago, would be so fitting? Snow picked this as the Quarter Quell because has a hidden agenda. He is not going to let you or me out of the arena alive. He will make sure we're dead."
That doesn't surprise me on Snow's behalf. He knows that in my rebellion, the other victors pose a threat, thinking that we will band together. The only way to kill me without being suspicious is to put me in the games again, using the excuse that the players in the game have been picked out for many years.
"You're probably right." I say. "Wouldn't you rather be survive into the final eight rather than get a knife to your throat a day in? This may seem hopeless to us, but our hard work in the games will make us powerful martyrs. It could bring on a successful rebellion, giving way to a safe place for your brother's future kids to grow up. Or Prim's future family. We can't be selfish."
I smile big with my teeth to coerce a smile out of him, or maybe a friendly shrug. You know that we work best, as a team." He stays silent for a minute. "Haymitch can help too." I whisper, thankful that Haymitch debugged his house long ago.
He opens his eyes quickly. "Katniss, do you not get it?" As he becomes irrational, he starts to hold me tighter, rolling the air out of my lungs. "I want you. I want me. I want us. Alive. Breathing. I want a future! He can't take that away from us!" He sputters, his voice cracking.
I do too. It seems fair for us both to survive. We already went to the arena once.
"Me too." I confirm. We hold each other for a few more minutes until we start to doze off. It has been so long since the victory tour, and I revel in his closeness.
Haymitch, our chaperone, begins to snore in his chair. Peeta smiles for the first time today, showing me a hint of his white teeth contrasting with the red rim of his eyes. I laugh softly, wondering how the droning noise of our mentor could make him crack a smile.
Suggesting how we are together, I can't deny that I would miss this. He makes me feel safe, warm, in a way I never thought I needed. Prim always needed the comfort. After my father died, I was always giving and never receiving. Peeta made me realize that I need to be cared for too.
He moves his head to my shoulder and weeps. What do I do? Do I pet him?
His head rests softly against my throat and I start to sob too. We both try to keep quiet, to let Haymitch successfully delve himself into his inebriated kind of mourning.
Peeta's desperate cries remind me of when I suggested the proposal. He was disappointed; I could hear him crying from my room. Haymitch says that he wants it to be real.
Now, I realize that consoling each other like this is what married couples do.
Do I want this to be real?
We are engaged. I got the ring. Thousands of people witnessed the moment he knelt on one knee and fit the band to my finger. Caesar told me that he had spent a fair amount of time choosing the perfect one. I only wore it for Capitol affairs, and it was all an act. However, I get this frantic urge to be wearing it. But why? After we got back, he kept it, because it is extremely valuable, and he knew I wouldn't wear it. It's not as gaudy as what some Capitolites wear. But as someone whose only accessory is my bow and arrows, Peeta keeps the ring locked away in the safe provided in our bedroom closets.
I reach my hand up and stroke his hair down to his ears. "It's okay. It's okay." I placate. "What can I do to help you?"
He lifts his head and looks me directly in my eyes. "Kiss me."
Why shouldn't I? A life with Gale is not going to happen. I hardly ever see him. Our Sunday hunting sessions have become awkward. His anger toward the Capitol is unnerving; he has become infatuated with rebellion.
He takes my confusion as a rejection, and rests his head back on the pillow. I have been so emotionally unresponsive to him since the games. Giving him attention and being quick to let him down.
Feeling something then concealing it.
"Oh Peeta," I sign. "If you only knew."
Slowly, I spread my fingers across his cheeks, my thumbs rubbing against his cheekbones. I lean in and kiss underneath his eyes, with a feather touch of my mouth. He gasps. Then, I leave a trail from there until I reach his lips.
It is full of salty tears and chapped lips. Of despair and false hopes. Expectation and finality. And I don't feel guilt toward Gale, just a sadness to the life Peeta and I will never have.
It feels impossibly amazing. I am falling apart and being put back together again. It is the first time we kiss without the pressure of tilting our heads correctly for the cameras, or smiling, or dousing the flames of a rebellion with our affection. It's an intrinsic thrill; we are rebelling against the rebellion.
He pulls away for a second to catch his breath and I can see a curious expression cross his face. He positions his hands to my waist.
Then we are kissing again and pushing hard and passionately against each other and sighing softly, determined to remember this moment. It's a carnal starvation, and to my mind, he is the only sustenance available. I tug at his bottom lip with an open mouth. We're desperate.
He lets go and begins to pepper kisses down my neck, slowly.
"Peeta?" My voice is breathy.
"Katniss," he says with his mouth flush with my neck.
Minutes pass between us, mindlessly kneading our lips together.
"Katniss," His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Well here's the good thing. I'm thinking that the reaping will be at the beginning of June, as always. That gives us around five months, so…" He drags his tongue over his lips, "150 days." He gulps. "That's not terrible. We have some time to be happy. If that's okay with you."
Am I happy? I think so. I nod.
"Good."
He begins to stroke my hair and pull me in closer, as the couch isn't very wide. "Haymitch is watching us. He's," Peeta squints his eyes in Haymitch's direction. "He's smiling." His quiet voice vibrates my neck.
"It's just the alcohol." I explain.
"Say what you want." A shudder runs down my body at the revelation of making Haymitch happy. He has been rooting for us since the beginning. When Peeta and I were hiding in the cave, recuperating from our injuries, Haymitch sent the broth with a clear romantic edge to it. And Haymitch knew of Peeta's affections before me. Even though our mentor knew I had better odds of leaving that arena than Peeta, he gave Peeta the respect to express himself to me.
We survived with my survival instincts, but we gained the nation's favor with his undeserved love. We left the arena, together, because of the rule change. I tagged along. But now, I don't think I'm just tagging along.
I shiver...
"I'm cold." I lie. My arm rests over Peeta's back and his the same. He rubs my back lazily with his available arm.
Haymitch starts to stir in his chair and a few minutes later he returns to place a blanket over us both. "Don't tell your mothers I am condoning this in my house." He looks to Peeta with a stern eye, "Whatever you do to her, I will do to you."
"Haymitch, don't worry." I say, with a blush covering my face, along with the blanket.
"That's my job, sweetheart." I smile, even though he can't see it.
"Thanks for the blanket Haymitch. See you in the morning." Peeta says graciously.
"Night kids." He dismisses himself and trips over his feet on his way up the stairs.
Peeta plants a kiss on my cheek.
In the darkness, my mind works hard to brand this moment into my memory. The freckles across his nose, the sweet smell of vomit slightly floating in the air, the sounds of the streetlights flickering outside the picture window, his tight grip on my back to keep me from falling off the edge.
If only Peeta knew.
"Hey." I whisper.
Peeta responds with a fervent kiss on the lips. "I'm exhausted yet buzzing. Why?"
"I feel the same way." I say.
Waiting a few minutes, I wake him again. "Hey," I repeat.
"What?"
"Let's get married tomorrow. We don't need anyone there besides you and me. We can do the ceremony at your grandmother's house and invite a handful of people. What do you say?"
Peeta scurries to sit up. "What?" He exclaims.
The light from the window shines on his face, highlighting the white in his eyes. He scoots me over, puts his prosthetic on, and hurries outside, leaving the door open to let the draft in.
That's usually me, running away.
Thinking about my night's sleep, I decide to head toward my house to climb into my bed. Was Peeta refusing my idea? Did he have to ask for his father's approval?
I'm walking into my front yard so captivated with my thoughts that I hardly notice the lights on upstairs at Peeta's house. Do I walk into my house to be pelted with the sympathies of my mother and sister, giving way to more tears and only making my family feel worse? Or do I see what Peeta is doing, even with the possibility that he fled to get out of my suggestion?
I can handle awkwardness.
His yard is meticulously maintained, the shrubs are leveled with snow, and his trees are trimmed. A wonderful smell of baked goods exits the house that no air freshener from the Capitol could compete with.
"Peeta?" I singsong quietly. No answer. I let myself in, wiping my snow-covered shoes on the mat by the door, and then decide to take them off completely. His carpet in the living room adds a warm touch to the room, something that differs from my home. His furniture is the same, and the light fixtures are identical. But what's amazing are the walls. Covering the original cream-colored walls are murals, and other walls hang beautiful painted landscapes of the trees we passed in District 7, and beaches from District 4.
My fingers rub the texture of the paint, and it transports me to the days we would spend with the plant book, his hand bringing to life pencil drawings of plants, as if the wildlife were telling a story. The way his face scrunches up to add the speckles to the Calla Lilly, or that he obsessed with getting the speckles just right.
I hear footsteps above me, but I continue to look around his home. His cupboards are organized perfectly, no dishes in the sink, only a light dusting of flour covering the cupboards that might never be cleaned off. I run my finger over the surface, making a path through the white dusting.
His Projector in the other room is still running, with a scene from one of the games displayed on the white wall. It must be an earlier one because the tributes are in their district garb instead of their matching tribute outfits. The scene is a beautiful beach, with the waves lapping over their feet as they run through the shallow pool of water.
The timer has just gone off as they are running to or from the cornucopia, picking up survival gear ranging from knives to matches to bottled waters.
As their desire to survive kicks in, the tropical blue water turns murky with blood and I can't bear to watch. I go to his projector and turn off the image.
"Hey, why'd you turn my show off?" Peeta says from around the corner.
A smile curls on my face, well knowing that he would never sit and watch this violence when we have already lived it.
I make my way toward him and he stands with his hands behind his back.
"What are you hiding there?" I ask.
"A symbol of something that I never thought I could give to you," the ring. "Marriage. A ring. You know Katniss; they say that the most dangerous man in the world is a man with nothing to lose." He quips, "If we die in the arena, Snow will get what he wants, our families will be safe, and we won't be around. We have nothing to lose. Katniss, Marry Me."
His face is so sincere, that it's as if I would be damaging to the air we breathe to say no, to fill the space with such an ugly and destructive word.
"Of course, Peeta."
The next morning, my mom and Prim scold me for not coming home.
"We thought that you had gone out into the woods and ran away! You may be facing your own fate, but we still face ours too." My mother lectures.
"You know I would never leave without you. Or Peeta, or Haymitch. And I was with Peeta, at Haymitch's house." I partially lie, but it gives my mom a chance to take a breath. "Haymitch was there. I know how you feel about us."
Prim gives me a smirk, and I shake my head cautiously.
"Okay then. Let me make some tea. And we can put the teabags on your eyes to reduce your swelling and redness."
A weak smile forms on my face.
As my mother leaves into the kitchen, Prim wraps her arms around me, and I stroke her hair. It's grown so long, it's almost raggedy at the ends that reach the middle of her waist.
"Ouch!" She exclaims quietly. "What was that? What snagged my hair?" Before I can hide it, she grasps my left hand with open eyes.
"Shh!"
"I haven't gotten to see it! It's beautiful." I haven't worn the ring since we arrived home from the Victory because it shines extraordinarily compared to my soot-covered surroundings. And even when I was trying my wedding dresses on, I didn't wear it because there was too much of a chance that it would catch on the material of my dresses, like it did to Prim's hair.
And it doesn't surprise me that my ring enamors Prim, her and Peeta are similar in that way. They both have a weakness for all things ornate and shiny.
"Thanks."
"But why are you wearing it now?"
"Can you keep a secret?" I play.
"Yes of course!" She exclaims.
"With the announcement last night, Peeta and I want to enter the games as a married couple." Prim takes what I said exactly as expected. She looks like she is floating on some cloud of love and magical toasting rituals. She is innocent, her response as naive as the Capitol.
What she doesn't know is that Peeta and I don't care anymore. But it also gives us a new angle going into the Quarter Quell. To send a married couple in? Or two – I cringe at the term – lovers. Maybe the Capitolites will see a glimpse of how cruel these rituals are. These games that aren't so playful.
"And we want to be together." I add.
She swoons, and I can't take this any longer. "Okay I am going to take a shower. And you should wash your eyes with vinegar to get the hearts out of your eyes." I say.
"Touché."
"Wait a moment dear," my mother insists. "Let me give you those herbs for your eyes." I comply if only for a minute, waiting for my mother to wrap the herbs.
"Mother, my eyes are not that bad, I'll be fine."
"Follow me."
We walk up the stairs and she guides me into the bathroom attached to my bedroom. We sit on the edge of the porcelain tub. It's cold under my legs.
She holds my arm as she speaks. "As a mother, and a healer, I notice many things that my patients, or children, don't want me to see. As Prim and I were in the front room last night, waiting for you to come home, of course we saw you go into Peeta's house. We also saw Peeta walk in before you with the biggest grin on his face." She exhales. "I don't want the details, I really don't. But Katniss, did you not think I would notice that bright glistening diamond on your finger?"
"No, I guess I didn't." I say. "But mom, we didn't do anything that you think we did. Promise. That's why... I have the ring. We want to do things right. Mom, we want to be married today." She smiles with her eyes as I continue, her face changing as if I were a little girl once again. "And I know were young, and its so last minute. But we just don't care anymore. We aren't going to make it past 6 months. It's the least I can do for him."
"My huntress of a daughter. Under any other circumstance, I would say no. But my sweet girl, whatever makes you happy is what I want for you." She says. "It's the least I can do."
I hug her tightly and nuzzle my face into her hair. It feels safe, in a way that I can only describe as motherly. Something I have been missing for a while. "Thank you." I whisper.
She starts to unravel the herbs in her hands. "Now, I know you feel that you just don't care, but, I don't think you want to be pregnant while you're in the games." She shows me the herbs and explains how they work, how they will reduce my chances of conception. The conversation is loving and it is a natural string of words-comforting.
"You better clean yourself up." She states.
It's late in the afternoon when I knock on Haymitch's door. I expect him to make loud footsteps as he stumbles his way to the door reeking of poisoned liquid. Instead, he reveals himself as a handsome middle-aged man who smells of aftershave to compliment his clean-cut face.
"Well look at you!" I exclaim jokingly. "What's the occasion?"
"You think your boy would keep this to himself? He knocked at my door this morning to tell me about your ritual today. He couldn't shut his trap. Now I am happy for you kids, but this," he motions to his appearance, "Will not be happening after today."
"Of course Haymitch. But you do look nice. I wish I knew of some women your age that could handle their liquor like you do."
"You're too kind." He deadpans.
Everyone assembles at Sue's house in Town. The witnesses are Haymitch, my mother and Prim, and his father and grandmother. Peeta and I wear nice clothes, but nothing like the fashion seen in the Capitol. We like it better that way. Peeta is dressed in a white shirt with brown buttons down the middle and a pair of slacks that look like they have seen many days.
"You look beautiful." He whispers to me, then leans in again, "You are beautiful." I blush, consciously feeling the fabric of my green dress between my fingers. My hair has its natural curl, hanging loosely without a braid to contain it.
It feels silly standing in the living room with the officiant from the Justice Building rambling about love and our obedience and sacrifice to the Capitol, and how thankful we are as a couple to live under this direction.
Peeta grasps my hand tighter than before, to remind me that this part doesn't matter at all. I nod.
The officiant has us repeat vows, and we do so with ease.
"Is there anything else either of you would like to say before we finish?"
I shake my head, knowing that I will share my thoughts with Peeta during our toasting within his home later tonight.
"Yes I do sir." Peeta speaks up, removing one of his hands from mine to dig a piece of paper from his pants pocket. He turns slightly to face our family, but his focus is on me. "I wrote a poem about Katniss when I was nine to my grandmother, because she also saw the absurdity of social standing getting in the way of relationships. It spoke of me loving the girl with the pale gray eyes." He reads it aloud, more from memory than from the sheet he holds. My sister of course gets choked up.
"Everything in this is true. But I would like to make a few revisions." He lets go of my other hand to reach into his other pocket, where he pulls out a piece of parchment. He takes hold of my hand again.
Thank you Katniss, for loving me
Even when our time has no guarantee.
You understand why I can't seem to smile on a rainy day
Thinking of how even the rain couldn't wash your tears away
But you are strong and beautiful not only on the outside
And since I've know you, my love for you has only multiplied
We will share this love, in front of our family and friends so few
Continuing in peace and love knowing we will always push through
To the woman of my dreams, Katniss Everdeen
Take this ring to show our love untainted and clean
He looks up at me for a sense of approval.
I kiss his cheek, his face warm from his reading. Of course, he would be the one to make the whole room swoon with his sweet prose. His grandmother holds onto my sister's hand loosely, her heart brimming with pride.
I know that I can't match that. He speaks with great skill, but he pulls it from so deep within his heart, I worry how he is able to safely retrieve it.
All I see are the tears in his eyes. His blue eyes that put the ocean in District 4 to shame.
"Oh, Peeta."
He pulls out my ring that I gave him before the ceremony, outside his grandmother's house and it fits on my finger perfectly.
Primrose comes to me and hands me a ring for Peeta, and it hangs on his finger.
We smile.
The officiant presses on, "Well, with the power invested in me by the Twelfth District of Panem, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
He takes my lips onto mine, and with a new exhilaration, I kiss my husband's lips.
The small room of guests claps, and Haymitch mumbles something about love that I ignore.
I used to be the one at weddings mumbling about the stupidity of love. If Peeta only knew.
After, our group congregates in the kitchen, surrounding a beautiful cake that could only be the artistry of Peeta himself. The cake is quite small, but it is a perfect circle with green frosting on one side and orange on the other. Along the middle, he swirls the colors together to make a scene likened to a colored sunset in the forest.
"It's perfect." We cut into the cake and savor each bite. As it gets later, our sleepy-eyed guests begin to say their congratulations and head back to their homes. Prim and my mother are of the last to leave, and I can't help but ask my mother where Peeta's ring came from.
"That was your father's ring. He never wore it into the mines in fear of losing it. It is his way to show that he is always with you. Loving and cherishing you as any father would." I gasp with astonishment, and inspect Peeta's left hand. "Congratulations to my daughter and new son. Enjoy your night." She hugs both of us.
Prim wraps her arms around my waist once again. I hope that she won't mind sleeping with Mother when she has nightmares.
We say our thanks to Grandma Sue, and she whispers something into Peeta's ear that makes him smile bigger than I have ever seen.
She does the same with me, "I love you so much. You have become the granddaughter I never had. For that I am forever thankful." I kiss her cheek as we depart, Peeta holding my hand tight as we make our way back to our home. My hunting jacket drapes over my arms in the cold, as our breath appears in the air.
"I asked your mother for the ring. I don't have to wear it if you don't want me to. But because he couldn't be here, I just thought-"
"You may be the most thoughtful man I have ever known." I say.
He kisses me so kindly that I almost can't breathe.
After 15 minutes of walking down dark gravel roads, we get into his home and it's frigid inside. Peeta quickly lets go of me to stoke the fire in the main room. Earlier today, when he was out, I moved some of my belongings into his home. He brought in more wood for the fire tonight, baking a loaf of bread for the toasting.
I run up to his bedroom and grab the blanket that I have loved since being a girl and wrap it around my arms. Then I put on my wool socks in hopes of bringing some life back into my toes.
"Why did we do the ceremony across town at my grandmother's house again?" He asks from the floor below.
My teeth chatter from above, "So we didn't have to make your grandmother walk all the way across town." I reply.
"That's a good point." He agrees.
"And you love her." I tease. "Almost thought you would pull her up there with us. I mean, that first poem was written to her."
Thinking I am becoming jealous, he retorts, "But who was it about?" I stay silent. "Thought so. What are you doing up there?"
It's a good question. Am I stalling? I know that the next step is our toasting, and that will signify that we truly are a married couple. The thought calms me, but terrifies my soul so deeply that it is almost paralyzing.
"Just trying to get warm." I say as I come down the stairs.
He has left the fire, moving some things around in his kitchen. I sit on the couch in front of the fire, pointing my toes to catch some warmth. My teeth are still chattering.
"I can fix that." He opens an ottoman holding at least a dozen blankets within. He wraps each one around me, cocooning me like the layers of an onion.
He goes back into the kitchen for a few more minutes, and comes out with a thick loaf of bread, placing it on the mantle. He sits at my feet, rubbing some warmth into my socks. It's a kind motion, but I also think that he wants to be closer to fire. "I am ready when you are." He states.
I nod.
"What are you thinking about?" He asks.
And what am I thinking about. That I am incapable of sharing what I feel with a person I admire. That I will not live up to his standards as a wife, disappointing him during our time together, even if it's only six months. I know that what I feel toward him is love, because I can't seem to match the emotional to anything else. However, it's different from the love I am familiar with. The only person that I am sure I love is Prim. This love drives me to protect her, to keep her well fed. But how do I switch so quickly from being the protector to the protected? To lose my complete independence in connection to Peeta?
Peeta glances at me patiently, his hand resting on my knee. I feel stupid for not being able to form my thoughts into a lucid phrase, feeling foolish in my muteness.
Instead, I express what I feel in silence, in a thousand unspoken words.
I reach for him in the orange glow of the light, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and shoving my face into the crook of his neck. He smells of aftershave, similar to what I smelt on Haymitch only hours ago. Infusing the smell of pine and spices that transports me to my woods, mixing with Peeta's natural musk. It smells and feels better on him, his close shave giving way to a light scratch of stubble.
My lips find the skin on his neck, little hills pressing against my pink skin. Goosebumps.
"You must be cold." I say.
"Quite the opposite actually. Whenever I'm around you I am always warm." There he goes, saying those phrases that would make a schoolgirl swoon. I scowl.
I wish that was true when we were in the cave." I say with a smile.
I pull the burgundy blanket off him to see if his theory of temperature is true.
"Okay, maybe I'm a little cold." His eyes crinkle the way they always do when he jokes.
I unravel all the blankets around me and push Peeta off the couch so I can further my idea. I pull the couch toward the fireplace, so that when we stick our feet out we can touch the mantle. Peeta finds the idea pleasant and he agrees. We wrap the blankets around us again, this time we only have one layer of fabric separating us, the blanket cocooning us as if we were one being. Our body heats serves as a great conductor.
We sit for a few minutes, intently watching the fire lick up different pieces of wood, the flames changing from yellow to orange to red to blue.
It's time.
I shimmy my arms out of the swaddle and reach for the hearty loaf of bread sitting on the hearth.
"Peeta."
"Yes, my wife."
"You know that I'm not good at that voicing my emotions. So instead, I'm going to say what comes to my mind, and hope that it makes sense." He urges me on. "Peeta, I promise to protect you. I promise to keep you happy. I promise that I will stay as your wife until the day I die, which will be much sooner than it would be later. Peeta, I never knew that I could care for you as much as I do Prim, maybe more... Probably more. But, I do know that you make me feel safe, and calm me. "
He studies my face and a smile develops along with his glossy eyes. He is trying to be strong. His glance moves from my eyes to my lips and then to the bread. He's being patient. It is one of his best traits.
I finish, "Even if we did have forever, I would still choose you." Then he loses it, shattering the dam to his tears.
He works his emotions. "I have spent majority of my life waking up each morning thinking about you. Wishing you were lying next to me. Now you sit here teasing me late into the night about things only us two could understand. I love you. I love you with so much of my heart that it scares me."
"What does it feel like?" I question.
"Love?"
"Yeah."
He thinks for a moment and speaks slowly but deliberately. "It feels like waves are crashing upon my chest every time I'm with you, slowly depleting the oxygen to my lungs. It feels like I am on a tightrope over a bed of thick plush flowers, completely exhilarating but at the same time I feel safe. It feels like I need to protect the person I care for constantly, that all I want is make sure you stay happy whenever it is within my control, and I feel defenseless when it's not. It's when you would do anything for another person. Die for them. Not just die, but also do so without regret. It is the most tortuous of emotions, yet it feels good. Katniss, it feels really good."
"Maybe I do love you then." I state plainly, rotating his ring around his finger.
"Maybe you do." He repeats to himself.
We toast the bread and make more promises to each other late into the night until words no longer can explain what we feel.
We both know that this won't last forever and that in order to survive in these games; we need proper preparation- to bulk up and become aware of our opponents. Nevertheless, we push it aside. We push everything aside for tonight.
In the shadows of the flames, we fall asleep and wake up tangled together that winter morning, with the initiative of training for the games as warriors, and enjoying every moment until the upcoming date of our deaths.