Goner
By Tinsadisaster
Summary: After a year of silence, Peeta reaches out to Katniss and makes her realize that when it comes to him, she was and always will be a goner.
Author's Note:
While I was driving to the local gym, I was hit with a plot bunny that resulted in this story. I've been on the FF site for years now, but this is my first Hunger Games fanfiction ever.
If this story has somehow been done before, I apologize. I am not trying to infringe on anyone's ideas. This is my honest take on Peeta and Katniss's relationship post-Mockinjay, pre-epilogue. Be prepared for a lot of drama, emotion, and grammatical mistakes.
Our little Mockingjay is a fighter, especially when it comes to the Boy with the Bread. If you're looking for a weak protagonist, you're in the wrong place, buddy.
Oh yeah, also because I say so, Katniss and Peeta returned to District 12 together. I can't remember if they actually did in the book, but I decided that for the sake of this story, they did. So deal with it. Booyah.
Enjoy and please review!
Turn it inside out so I can see
The part of you that's drifting over me
And when I wake you're – you're never there
And when I sleep you're – you're always there
You're everywhere
Michelle Branch – Everywhere
I. A Ghostly Gift
I stare at his figure retreating in the distance and I wonder what surprise he has left for me today. I watch him silently and wait until I am certain he's back in his own house before I creep up to my front door and open it.
Some days Peeta Mellark leaves me baked goods. Other days, he leaves me paintings. Ever so often, he leaves a note. They're brief and boring, but they're personal. I devour the baked goods and stare at the paintings for hours before I hide them in one of the guest rooms in my spacious house. When he leaves notes, I leave them in my pocket for the entire day and wait until I go to sleep to read them. My fingers draw out every line, wondering how many pieces of paper he trashes before he was content with this version of his innermost feelings.
This is what my relationship with the Boy with the Bread has been for the past few months. It's been a year now since we've both returned to District 12. Haymitch returned because his house and his stash of hard alcohol was here. I returned because I was deemed a "crazy lunatic" and forced to come back. I'd like to think Peeta returned because he wanted to be near me, but I'm pretty sure he just didn't know where else to go.
We haven't spoken since the train ride that brought us home. Even then, it was a short conversation. He asked to hold my hand and I obliged. His fingers weaved in-between mine. I warmed up as if I had just taken one of those Capitol showers.
"What's going to happen to us, Katniss, once we go back?" he asked, staring at me with those kind eyes. I knew in that moment, that the real Peeta was talking to me, not the one tainted by the Capitol's poison.
"I don't know, Peeta," I replied. His face sank and he started to detangle his fingers from mine. Without another word, he stood up and left our compartment. I didn't see him again for a while.
I was losing the Boy with the Bread all over again.
When I still lived in the Seam, before the Capitol's Hunger Games drastically changed my life, time was always against me. Every morning, I had to make sure Prim ate something and looked presentable for school before heading out to hunt with Gale. We made sure to hunt efficiently so we could appear at the right time on the right people's doorsteps in the Merchant section of District 12. We didn't stay long in the Merchant section because I had to return home to surrender whatever I hauled in for the day to my mother, who always managed to make a meal that filled our bellies. Then we would all go to sleep and wake up the next day, restarting our routine.
My mother lives in another district now. She calls me on the phone from time to time, to make sure I'm still alive. She keeps telling me that she'll come to visit, but I always tell to not bother. This is our relationship. In the back of my mind, I still hold a grudge against her. Dr. Aurelius tells me that I should learn to forgive her and to try rebuilding the connection between her and I. I told him that I was the Girl on Fire; I didn't build bridges, I burned them down.
I didn't mind my mother's absence in my life so much, but Prim's death has affected me in ways I still cannot comprehend. I have nightmares still, involving fires and explosions and her cries for help. I wake up gasping for air, tears streaming down my face, and her name dying on my lips. They used to be reoccurring, especially during the first few months after returning to District 12. After some drunken bonding with Haymitch and real counseling from Dr. Aurelius, as well as some Capitol-mandated drugs, I've managed to keep them at bay.
Dr. Aurelius recommended gardening as part of my therapy. He told me to plant primrose seeds and to tend to them. I told him to send me stronger drugs. He obviously ignored my request and sent me seeds instead of pills. I've hidden them in some drawer in the kitchen.
She will always be on my mind and I'm slowly learning to accept that. When I think of small details particular to her, like her braids, untucked blouses, or her love for that mangy cat Buttercup, I stop what I'm doing, sit down, and give myself time to breathe. Sometimes the moment passes and I pick myself up and try to continue on with my day. Other days, her memory hits me like a train and I'm left breathless and crawling for control of my body and mind. I'm getting better, I think.
These are the moments that I find myself needing Gale or Peeta the most. Gale calls once in a blue moon to check up on me and to make everything more awkward than it originally was. I love Gale as a friend, but his possible connection to Prim's death makes my heart painfully swell up in my chest. I will forgive him one day, but today's not the day; and just to pull from personal experience, my track record for forgiveness is notoriously terrible.
And Peeta, well, I've already told you about Peeta.
The only relationship that hasn't changed is the one I have with Haymitch. The great thing about Haymitch is that he's a simple man. If you don't tell him what to do with his life (and his liver), he won't bark at you or bite you. We're similar in that way. Some nights, when I'm tired of being by myself, I walk over to his house and join him in one of his drunken stupors. I try to limit these instances, because I can't stand the sickness that comes in the morning after going shot for shot with my alcoholic mentor.
I try my best not to stare at Peeta's house as I walk to Haymitch's, but more often than not, I peek to see if there's a light in the windows, indicating that he's up. Some part of me wishes he would stop whatever he's doing and join me, but I know that's not ever going to happen. Not when he hates me as much as he thinks he does.
Similar to how I've felt about my mother for years, I know now how much it hurts to be so close to a person and to be so far away from them at the same time. I wish there was a simple solution to this mess, but there isn't. This is my life now, full of complications and holes waiting to be filled again.
I'm glad that the depression and post-traumatic stress hasn't completely gotten the best of me. I may be broken, but I'm not a goner. I've fought against the odds ever since I could remember, and I've managed to win every time.
Except with Peeta. He is a prize I'll never claim. I don't know his rules and I can't make up my own. He controls the game and I am just a pawn.
A square canvas sits face down on the top step of my porch. My weary bones come to life as I walk towards the gift and grab it with tingling fingers. I hold my breath as I slowly turn it over.
Peeta has painted me a few things already. The first painting he gave me was of Rue; she looked angelic and peaceful, twirling in a field of flowers. The second painting was of Prim and I admiring the cake designs in the Mellark's bakery front window display. The last painting was of a Mockingjay in flight.
We haven't exchanged a word in a year, but he still speaks to me. He tells me how he's doing, through his notes. He lets me know he still cares about my health when he provides baked goods. His paintings hold their own special meaning. I always hope for a painting, but a cheese bun is just as good.
I wonder whom he has painted for me today. It might be our dear friend Finnick or my former stylist and friend Cinna. It might even be Gale.
My eyes meet the bright greens, muted grays, and muddy browns etched intricately on the small canvas. I'm instantly drawn to the object in the foreground though. I gasp.
There, bending to the will of the imaginary wind, is the dandelion that gave me hope of survival and life, a memory from so many years ago.
His message is clear.
"There's still hope for us," I whisper to myself. Emotions flood my system all at once. I don't know what to feel so I feel everything.
I finally notice I'm crying when I see my tears dropping on the canvas. I don't care.
However, I suddenly realize I'm not alone. My ears pick up the distinct sound of boots dragging and crunching on the gravel in front of my house and the voice of a ghost calling out my name.
"Katniss."
Before he can say anything else, I rush inside my house and lock the door, gift in hand.
My message is clear.