"Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over." - Mockingjay, pg. 388

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The Kitchen

He's making dinner. I hear him downstairs bustling around, turning the random assortment of goods he came to the house with into some sort of meal for us. I didn't ask him to – I never do. He just does it. I think it makes him feel better about things.

We're finding our way back to ourselves, and each other. It's slow, and some days I can hardly look at him for all of the excruciating memories that surface. I know it can be the same for him. But usually he's exactly what – who – I need to survive the days and, more importantly, the horrific, haunting dreams at night.

It isn't anything more than that, at least right now. I'll admit there are times when we're curled together in the dark, safely hidden under the blankets, and I wonder what his hands would feel like on my skin, not to comfort, but to explore. I'm forgetting what his lips felt like on mine, and it bothers me, because I thought I knew them so well, even despite the charade. But I can't ask for a reminder, not when we're both still in so many jagged pieces.

Thoughts like these don't make sense to me, because I've never before had the luxury of time to consider them. These days I cling to things that make sense, so instead I think of him down in the kitchen, and then I notice how quiet it's gotten.

A clatter and a smash send me hurtling down the stairs. The scene that meets me in the doorway is one I haven't seen in so long: he stands rigid by the table, gripping the back of one of the chairs, the wood splintering in his clutch. His pupils are dilated, and the surrounding blue of his eyes looks electrified. His skin has paled, making his burn scars even more pronounced. Sweat is forming at his temples, his forehead, his neck.

This is a flashback – a hijacking of his mind. I haven't seen one since back when we were making our deadly trip through the Capitol, and then I had trained and armed soldiers in my company in case things got out of hand, and metal around his wrists to restrain. Here, there is nothing separating us except a table and a few yards of space.

We stare at each other for what is probably seconds but feels like hours. His breath is uneven and I think mine is, too. I remember the way his hands squeezed around my throat in the District 13 hospital and decide to keep my distance, which isn't difficult – I'm frozen.

I don't know what to do, so I plead: "Peeta."

My voice sends him into a fit. He howls and his hands fly over his ears as he crouches, head down, his shoes crunching broken glass that was once a bowl. He sounds like a dying animal, like Cato being ripped apart by the mutts, and I have to work to hold back my own flashbacks.

"Go!" he yells, throwing his hands onto the glittering floor for balance, glass puncturing his palms. He lifts his head, expression wild. His eyes dart around, unable to settle on me. "You're a monster – you're a – Go!"

The second command sends me out the front door. I leave him, my boy with the bread, curled on my kitchen floor, bloody hands scrambling over his face. I'm scared, too scared to be brave and try to help him, because seeing him battle his demons only brings out my own.

I don't stop until I'm in Haymitch's living room, where the older man is half-asleep in a chair, knife resting on his thigh. He takes in my disheveled appearance, the tears leaking from my eyes that I didn't even know started.

"Help him," I choke out. "Peeta – in my kitchen –"

Haymitch is up and far more alert than would be expected. He doesn't say anything as he rushes past me and out the door I banged open. He's taken his knife along.

I curl up on the chair he vacated and wait. I'm not sure how much time passes. Eventually my mentor returns, shirt splotched with blood. He cracks open a fresh bottle of liquor and takes a very, very long swig before he even acknowledges me.

"He's all right. I cleaned him up and put him to bed. Sae's gonna watch him overnight."

"Thank you," I say, voice cracking.

We sit for a while in silence, and then I leave. Someone's cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. The broken chair is gone. Other than that, it looks like nothing's changed in the room. When I go to sleep I dream of blood-soaked bread.

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