"You love me. Real or not real?"
I tell him, "Real."
I find myself not able to meet his eyes, those deep pools of blue that always made me want to either smile or cry. I know looking at him will cause everything that hurts to come rushing back, because I can't stand the look of either barely contained joy, or the even more ominous look of heart-breaking pain. What happens when my brief flashes of caring confidence are always coupled with flashbacks?
Peeta does the unexpected, forcing me to look at him with a scarred hand on my jaw. His right hand traces the criss-cross of scars on my neck, causing goose-flesh to erupt every where, my unsettling reaction to his loving, uncharted touch. Everything inside me knows that I meant every word of affection towards him, but that doesn't mean I'm not scared.
I carefully examine his face, the graphed skin on his forehead, the blue orbs that are still following the movements of his hand as he traces circles with his fingertips. Oddly enough, his expression looks free. It's not the adoring, overly relieved and grateful face I would have seen before the Capitol happened, but then again, I was never really able to appreciate that intense gaze.
His gaze is intense in the right way when he meets my eyes. While those eyes don't judge, I know he finally sees all my mistakes, and I'm filled with an unfamiliar warmth when I realize that despite everything, he chose me again. Even getting past the pretty exterior only to be revealed the mutt underneath, he still managed to find another layer underneath all the hideous scars, something that he says is beautiful.
He says he gets glimpses of it when my eyes "twinkle" when I see cheese buns, or when Buttercup some how manages to protect me in her old age. When I talk to my mother I get some of my childhood back. When Haymitch calls me "sweet heart" a little less sarcastically I "stop looking so cold".
"Your eyes are sparkling." Peeta tells me, and like a deer caught in one of my snares, I'm trapped. I tear my gaze from his, looking down at my lap and the bed sheets wrapped around me. His chest is shirtless, wearing only pajamas pants, and it's then that I realize I've been hogging the blanket, again, probably the whole night too.
"Katniss," it sounds like a sigh when it escapes his lips. His familiar, kissable lips. "Do you love me?"
"Yes," I choke out. My stomach flutters with butterflies when he gives me that private smile that's only meant for me, I feel like I'm exploding when ever he has an attack, my chest concaves when I see the tired yet still apologetic look he gives me whenever it's finally over. Spending even a minute without him is like spending a minute where 'smiling' is just a word, an impossible feat when everything I care about isn't with me. What else can love be?
His still strong arms envelop me as I sob, "Peeta,"
"I know Katniss, I know," he rocks me in his lap, I breath in the scent of his skin, salty with sweat and minty with burn cream, the bread smell always lingering. When he's in the kitchen baking early, before I go hunting, I smell the bed sheets, a mixture of his and my scent lingering in the folds of the soft, crumpled sheets. It feels so good to know I can have him whenever I need him, and I know it's okay to need him so much because he needs me just as much, and I'm finally giving back.
I reach up to wrap my arm around his neck, but instead of giving him the kiss he fully expected, I turn him around so his head is in my lap, playing with his hair as I manage to hold his gaze, looking down at him. I lean back, resting my head and upper back on the headboard, my fingers kneading through his scalp like I'm Peeta and I'm kneading bread.
I crack open my heavy eye lids, to find a sleepy smile on his face as his breaths start to come more even. I stare, transfixed by him, he seems so comfortable with me. I kiss his forehead, his eyes fluttering open. His smile gets impossibly more crooked as he cups my cheek with his hand.
"I love you, Peeta," I say the words deliberately, trying to get the point across. There will be no more waiting. We're healed enough. He lets out a breath, a sigh, as he pulls me down to rest my head on his chest. He takes my hair out of its customary braid, playing with the soft waves. I listen to the soft beats of his steady heart, my ear pressed against the bare skin of the left side of his chest.
My home may be District 12 and the forest, but I'd be lying if I said I would feel at home in a another house at Victor's Village. Peeta's house is the familiar, with the scent of bread and soft smiles everywhere. I don't feel comfortable in his house when he's not here, either. The only time I ever feel even close okay is when we're together, in his arms, just living.
Breathing in and out, sometimes the same air when the inch of distance seems like miles. I give in to my sleep, drifting off peacefully in Peeta's caring arms. I don't worry about nightmares, because Peeta is my antidote.
I wake with a fluttering of lashes, quite unlike the mornings where I would only wake to Peeta's shaking or the hard thump of the floor when I thrash around too much. I can remember the dream, full of frosted flowers, fresh bread and sparkling blue eyes.
A good dream, like one four leaf clover in a patch of crab grass, so far in between are the good dreams. The bad ones are everywhere I look. When I slowly peel myself from Peeta's warmth-radiating chest, I find a small smile on his lips, his eyebrows scrunching together unexpectedly.
I cringe, thinking his dream has just taken a turn for the worse, but instead of shaking him awake, I find that his face relaxes, once his tightening arms get their wish and have me safely nestled in his chest again.
I stay there, and don't even try to fight the urge to sleep. I no longer have to remain active in order to not become insane, just a glance into this boys eyes and I'm anchored to the ground so strongly I can't even wiggle my pinkie finger.
We wake to the sunlight streaming through the window, I turn my head so my nose is squished into Peeta's shoulder, I really do hate getting up in the morning, his arms are just too warm.
"Katniss, food?" I laugh, and he smiles at me, his eyes crinkling. He kisses my temple before finally managing to drag me out of bed, and I make eggs while he gets the bread he made yesterday while I was getting the rabbit for our dinner today. We sit down, and the quietness is peaceful.
Peeta knows me enough to stay comfortably silent, but he insists on me sitting next to him instead of across from him, as close possible. We're bumping elbows, and I'm scowling at him playfully and all he does is laugh.
"Going shirtless now, are we?" I almost didn't notice him coming through the door, so wrapped as I was in Peeta. How did I ever survive not one but two Hunger Games? Peeta and I are both blushing. Thank goodness we didn't actually do anything. By some feat my blush deepens, when do I even think of these things?
"Got any liquor?" Peeta just shakes his head, putting his arm around my shoulders, and I don't mind the contact in front of our mentor because Haymitch smiles.
For a brief moment, Haymitch looks deep into my eyes, and I'm surprised that I don't even have to even think about looking happy and grateful, because I already am.