Spring. A soft wind scurries across Peeta's face as he lies down and stretches out in the grass. It's a perfect day; the temperature just hot enough, the wind just cool enough, and him – content, calm. Waiting. He places his hands underneath his head and looks up at the sky. It's a deep blue, only occasionally visited by white and gray clouds, strewn across it like patches of cotton or spilled cream. The glaring but kind sun has him squinting slightly, creating a small crease between his thick eyebrows. The world is peaceful.
Peeta let's out a sigh – the kind of sigh that is surrounded by tremors of relief – and, for a moment, he allows himself to relax. For the first time today, he is alone, and he cherishes every solitary moment like it was golden. He inhales deeply and, in turn, focuses on every one of his body parts: feet, legs, pelvis, stomach, arms, back, shoulders, neck and head. It's all there. He focuses on his brain for a second, on his thoughts. Then on his gut. On his heart. Feeling the life in him as every breath he draws passes through his being. His blood pumping to the rhythm of his heartbeats. Thump-thump, thump-thump.
Waiting. Watching the sky. Not really thinking, but silently, in passing, wondering if the people in the Capitol or any of the other districts ever have moments like these. Doing nothing. Maybe they used to, before the war. But now? He thinks: probably not, and: I should probably feel bad about that, but, in truth, he doesn't. Not right now. They've all had to pay their price in the war. Peeta maybe more than anyone else.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he allows himself a short rest, while the birdsong and the sweet wind softly cradles him into oblivion. Not really sleeping, but definitely not fully awake, pictures and memories flood his mind. A pair of smiling eyes. Dirt and blood staining his hands. The bittersweet smell of fire and stone. He is encased in a cocoon of silken and fuzzy images, but he isn't afraid. He hasn't had a nightmare in a long time.
Lying there – eyes closed and facing the heavens – he looks as peaceful as ever. And he is, too. No longer the frightened dove he used to be when he was younger. Which is why he doesn't really react, or get startled, when the light noise of someone moving through the grass, towards him, reaches his ears. Somewhere inside him, Peeta registers the movement, but doesn't even open his eyes too look.
As the owner of those silent feet creep closer, Peeta's nose picks up on the safe and familiar scent of coal dust. The hand reaching out to touch his face is warm and comforting as it pushes his hair back and gently strokes it.
A slight tingle runs through his limbs. Wanting to hold on to this moment for just a little longer, Peeta hesitates to open his eyes, and just as he is about to, he feels the breath against his mouth, hovering right above his lips. They part, effortlessly, as he awaits the touch. And it comes; conservatively at first, but soon blooming into a full kiss. Fervent, hungry. When they finally part, Peeta's eyes are still closed.
"Look at me," beckons a voice, suddenly emerging from the wide, cradling dark into Peeta's consciousness.
Peeta, like a slave to it, obeys, and finds himself staring into a face he knows so well by now. The sun hanging directly over Gale's head creates a sort of halo, shadowing his face but emphasizing the saint-like features of his tall, handsome being.
Gale dives in to kiss him again, and Peeta willingly, unequivocally accepts. Gale is warm, and sweet; his tongue soft and moist. The kiss rouses something inside of them both – something initially unintended, but honest – and for a while they are inexorably intertwined. As they finally tear their lips from one another – Gale now lying in the grass next to him – Gale says: "I missed you so much today." His voice is tired, but genuine.
Touching his hair, Peeta smiles. He wants to say something in return, like: "Me, too," or "I know the feeling," but in the end says nothing at all. Instead, he leans in to press his lips against Gale's cheekbone, leaving behind a tiny wet mark. Gale's skin is hot and a bit dusty. Always dusty.
"I've had a horrible day," Gale adds, running his fingers quickly through his short hair.
"And still you look like you've just descended from heaven."
"Well, I did have the decency to take a bath before I came here." His smile, shining all the way from his lips, straight down into Peeta's ribcage. "Summer is finally coming," he adds. "Soon we'll be able to swim in the lake again."
He falls silent then – suddenly bashful – as they both proceed to picture a warm summer's day by the lake. Quietly, unanimously, they both picture her. It wasn't intentional, but there she is now, in their minds. Neither of them mentions her name, but it's as if she's suddenly lying between them in the grass. Silent; her brown eyes alive, but brutal and sad, observing the two of them ever so closely.
The memory of her is still too painful to verbally acknowledge. They don't talk about her, but Peeta can't help but feeling like he is somehow betraying her.
Gale kisses him again, trying to chase away the thoughts clouding both of their minds. He still hasn't learned how to cope when the memories start to haunt him. Once again, Peeta accepts his somewhat desperate kiss without any sign of resistance, even though he knows Gale is probably thinking of her in that very moment. Maybe even picturing her face as he kisses him.
Then they both lie in silence for a long while. Gale rests his head on Peeta's chest, quietly following the beats of his heart, trying not to listen to his own. There is no resentment or sadness between them; only comfort and silence. Though they can hardly be described as happy, they are allowed a short respite from the dulling pain of an everyday life, that is finally free from war and suffering, but also completely devoid of the fire and passion emanating from a person they both used to love deeply; one Katniss Everdeen.
Closing his eyes once more, only this time much harder, Peeta clutches Gale's hand firmly, trying to find his way back to that warm, dark place that he can only ever find buried deep in his subconscious. There, he sometimes still sees her, and the three of them are together, healthy and alive. Happy, even. There, he can pretend that everything is as it should be, and that they are all blooming with energy and joy. Even the memories from the games seem happy in the light of the things he has seen since then. Sure, in those memories, the image of Katniss is soiled by blood and pain, and by the inherent life-threatening danger that comes with the games – but in them, at least, she is still burning. Still strong. And so is Peeta; confident in his conviction that he would never love like he loved her, but that that's okay as long as she was still alive. Even if it meant the death of him.
In the isolated, distorted world of The Hunger Games, Katniss was his only reality. The only thing that mattered to him.
Things have changed, to say the least. But on some level, she is still, and will always be, his only reality.
Grasping Gale's hand even harder now, his body tightens as Peeta forces himself to finally come to terms with what he has been trying not to think about for so long. It's a sharp and painful thought that jabs hard into his being. Against the dark of his eyelids he imagines her face – the vague smile, the honest eyes – and a tiny voice suddenly emerges at the back of his head. Tears well up in his eyes as it quietly whispers the truth, every syllable slivering it's way into his heart and getting stuck there forever.
The Mockingjay burns no more. Katniss Everdeen is dead.