I have not truly slept since before the reaping. Even the nights leading up to it I struggled to rest, fearing for myself, for my brother, my friends, fearing for Katniss and her multitude of slips in that bowl. I have wanted to ask how many times her name was actually in there for so long, but it seems moot now. Had I realized Prim's age, I'd have worried for her too. And since then- well. That really doesn't need much explaining. There isn't enough paint in the world to get rid of the nightmares. At home I pace my empty house in the Victor's Village. Occasionally drop in on Haymitch when I notice his lights on. On the train I have simply been wandering. Night after night I find myself here.
Behind the closed door I am leaning against I can hear Katniss murmuring in her sleep. She has been getting more frantic every night, and the drugs Effie gave her have only seemed to make it worse. I clench and unclench my fists, and then I hear it. My name. She's calling for me, and I panic. In an instant I am in the room, at her bed, my arms around her as she starts to scream.
"Katniss! Katniss," I pull back, taking her face in my hands, rubbing my thumbs over her cheekbones. Her eyelids flutter, and she gasps like a drowning person, her eyes frantic and searching. She finds my face and I try to smile, try to soften the concern in my features. "Hey, it's okay."
"Peeta?" Her voice is tiny and childlike and makes my heart ache. She presses her eyes closed, lips quivering. I can see her trying to force the fog of the sleeping pills from her mind. "Nightmares."
"You're okay," I kiss her forehead, comb my fingers through her hair. I feel her arms snake around my waist tentatively, feel her body sag against mine. I have been waiting for this. Aching for this. My own nightmares I am so desperate to escape are all of a life where I could never have this. Katniss, hair loose and flowing, guard down, as vulnerable and frightened as I have felt. Not the starcrossed lover, not the girl on fire, they are both beautiful, but they are both creations. I've only ever wanted this.
"Will you please stay?" Her arms tighten around me for a moment.
"Of course I will." Even if her voice weren't so painfully soft I would never say no. I pull away, reassuring her I'm only closing the door I left swinging ajar when I rushed in, and return to the space she has made in the bed for me. Her thinning frame folds against me, the closest I have held her since the cave, and I rub her back until I hear her breathing slow, evening out, and she falls asleep in my arms.
It becomes an unspoken, nightly ritual. In the middle of the night, when I can't wander any more, I slip into her room and into her bed. I even manage to sleep, though I am still woken by those nightmares. Opening my eyes to the warmth of her beside me is the greatest comfort I can imagine. When Katniss wakes she tears out of her sleep, sobbing and hysterical, and it is no small amount of comforting that can calm her down. The first night her lips find mine in the dark I am too stunned to immediately respond. She sets her hand on my cheek, murmuring an apology that I cut off with another kiss, one that I briefly register as too passionate, too intense. Katniss makes a small, gasping sound against my mouth and my head swims, it's all I can do not to press against her. When the kiss ends I turn onto my back, allowing her to curl up against my side, nestled in the crook of my arm.
"You're so warm," she murmurs, nuzzling against my neck as she begins to doze. There is no way I'll catch a bit of sleep tonight. When the sun rises the tinted windows of the train car shift slowly, allowing more and more light to fill the room. The way it illuminates her features and the way it catches in her hair are breathtaking, and it occurs to me that I am the only man to see her like this. Maybe the only person, though I am sure both her mother and Prim have watched over her like this, have seen what I see now in their own way. Somehow I know this is something Gale has never seen. She would never allow him to see her so open and tender.
Katniss blinks herself awake with a quiet, soft 'hi', and the smiles we exchange are the first genuine ones in far too long. When we step out of the room to breakfast we receive a heavy, disapproving glare from Effie. We are only saved from the lecture by her mouthful of waffles.
As the nights go on, Katniss' kisses become needy, her fingers clutching at the soft fabric of my shirt, her body shifting against mine between the sheets. She is unsteady, and unsure, and though I feel the same I fight through the hammering in my chest and lift off my shirt, move myself on top of her, murmur against her lips as I slide my hands over her body. When she takes my wrist and guides my hand beneath her shirt I can no longer focus on kissing her. I just press my face against her neck, forcing my breathing to slow, but my whole body is trembling and I know she can feel it because she slides her leg against my hip, and her hands dip low on my back.
The next night she is waiting for me in her underclothes, a thin-strapped top and a pair of loose fitting shorts that expose her entire thigh. I pull off my nightshirt before slipping into bed beside her, and even in the dark I can see the flush in her cheeks. As she presses the length of her body against mine I wonder briefly if this is as false as our public displays, and I try to imagine going back to the barren, too-large house in the Village I have tried to make my home and return to waking to an empty bed, wandering alone, venturing to see Haymitch for a late night drink. My heart feels as though it will break.
"Peeta?" Katniss has her hands on my face, and when I open my eyes she is staring into them. "Are you with me?" I nod, hoping that the tears I feel trying to escape will cling to my lashes and dry before she is aware of them, thankful for the dark that obscures them. It does not obscure them well enough. When I blink her fingertips are brushing over my eyes, flicking away the tears, and she gently pulls me on top of her. It is our last night before home. The last chance I may ever have, and I don't hold back. I kiss her hungrily, explore her skin with my hands, listening to and feeding off her responses. I want those gasps and barely-there moans locked in my memory. I want to remember the softness of her belly against my lips, the way the muscles in her thighs tense as they move beneath my hands. I want the taste of her, the feel of her hand curled around me, to stay with me forever.
We both sleep soundly, tangled in each other, our clothes scattered on the floor. I am awake with the sun, playing with her hair as it catches the light, brushing my fingers over the curve of her lip. Katniss is too beautiful in her sleep. When I pull my hand back her brow furrows, the corners of her mouth shifting down slightly. It is a strange comfort to know that the loss of my touch brings on that distress, and I stroke my fingers over her brow, smoothing away the small wrinkle that has begun to form on a face far too young for it. The landscape out the window starts to look familiar. Rolling, wooded foothills, the low mountains in the distance. Soon we will be home and like as not, back to living as near strangers. I lay back down, wrapping Katniss in my arms and pulling her close. Her gentle breathing and the feel of her hand curling against my chest lull me to sleep.
When I wake the bed is empty, and the train is beginning to slow. My pajamas are folded neatly at the foot of the bed, the door closed. I rise and dress reluctantly. I do not want to leave this room. I do not want to face whatever normal is for Katniss and me. I stare down at the bed, and in a moment of impulse I whip the case off the pillow and tuck it into my pocket. When I return home I tuck the square of folded fabric into the case of my own pillow, and when the nightmares come it is the first place my hand goes. The first thing I need to hold on to.