A/N: This started out as a PIP one shot for Seven Deadly Sins, and then it turned into this! Let me know what you think :)
Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain ~ William Faulkner
She runs the tip of her finger down the gap between the shutters and considers opening them and climbing out onto the roof of the portico. Behind her, spread across the bed, her new husband sleeps. He sleeps silently. She thought he would snore, in fact he barely breathes, little shallow breaths like a cat. Katniss can't fill her lungs in this room, either, as if she might inhale a frilly valance or lace doily by accident.
She feels like she hasn't exhaled all day so she does so now, a long trembling sigh, expelling every powdery kiss and clammy handclasp from the receiving line. And especially purging the memory of Cato's fingers between the ribbons of her corset, the sharp nail on one of his hands catching and snagging her chemise. Her mother had told her to close her eyes but she hadn't, she looked at the pimple on the side of his red-gold neck as he moved above her, and she thought about pricking it and drawing blood.
Perhaps she will sleep on the floor, curled on a blanket, her arms aching with the absence of Prim. It would be less uncomfortable than contorting her body to fit around a man she doesn't want to touch. She is used to layers protecting her from men like Cato, acres of boundaries; petticoats and muslin, forcing a distance that her disinterested eyes don't seem to convey clearly enough. He didn't intend to be refused from the first moment they met when he danced too close and said too much. She had become used to being overlooked, had come to rely on it. She had thought it would last forever. Gale used to smile when she said that, when she said she planned to shun corsetry and stay out in the fields with him riding her father's handsome hunter. She said she would rather fall from the horse and break her neck than get married at sixteen. She said.
Now, there will be a week of parties and barbecues from which she can't escape, and, then, the wedding trip. Katniss cannot begin to think of that trip, of how it will be without the familiar presence of her sister, or of Gale, taking a dance with her as he did today and whispering reassurance without leaning too close to her ear. His smell and touch soothed Katniss. Her husband watched, his tongue flicking the mint garnish on his glass idly, his eyes never leaving them. He led the next reel with Clove, his pale gaze still upon Katniss, his upper lip raised in something very like a sneer when she was forced to take the hand of his younger brother who trod relentlessly on her toes.
Gale hates Cato, although he has never said so, she knows.
Katniss had never imagined getting married. She knew she would have to marry of course, but the actual process; the wedding, had never entered her mind. She thought she had longer, and she thought that it would be Gale; her constant. She wishes she could slip out now, down the heavily polished staircase, the deep pile of the rugs at the bottom swallowing her footsteps. Gale will be awake. He might even be out with his gun, looking for the burn of a deer's eyes in the night. He will want to kill something, tonight. The idea of never hunting with Gale again, never swimming with him in the river when the heat of the day began to press in on all sides, hollows out a part of Katniss' chest and leaves behind an ache. She aches for freedom.
Cato stirs. He sits up and his outline shimmers in the grey half-dark. She can't make out his face but she feels him looking at her.
"Come back to bed," he says.
Katniss swallows the lump in her throat and obeys. She nears the bed and his hand reaches out and closes around her wrist, his rough thumb caresses the thin skin there as he pulls her down beside him. She is glad she can't see his face as his fingers pass across her cheekbone and thread into her hair. Cato leans forwards and presses his lips hard against her neck, releasing her wrist and pulling down the front of her nightgown. He is rough and Katniss is not used to being touched. Her body protests and she tenses, thanking God for the darkness as she screws her eyes shut in mortification as he squeezes her breast. A boy after Sunday school once touched her chest and Katniss punched him in the nose, blood in clots staining his shirt. She cannot fight or refuse her husband. Reluctantly, she holds her hands against his firm chest, imagining that she is pushing him away.
Katniss hopes vaguely that he will grow tired of this as he tugs her nightdress over her head and presses her beneath him. It hurts. Distracting herself she imagines the shade of cedars overhead, the pinkish red flesh revealed when Gale swings his axe to chop a log, the way his blade never jars and the ease at which he raises it and lets it fall. He made her bow with that wood. She cannot forget the smell of her first bow burning, the heady incense stinging her eyes as her mother watched from an upstairs window. From then on she kept her bow in the woods where it no doubt remains.
Cato grunts and his skin is moist, slick against her own. She thinks of Mrs Calhoun next door and wonders whether her mother-in-law has listened this night, waiting for their union to become official, for there to be no turning back as she picks at her needle work in poor light. Momma doesn't sleep, Cato had said when they came up to bed, waving his hand impatiently when Katniss tiptoed around the room. It is impossible to tell whether this is true or not. Mrs Calhoun perpetuates the image of the indefatigable matron, an aristocratic beauty of Capitol descent who moves in her own small world with a total lack of concern, directing the running of the plantation as if she has always done so. She speaks as though everything is a perfectly placed afterthought, as if it hardly warrants her time to mention it at all, so confident is she in her divine power. Katniss has no concept of menus, of making calls or entertaining guests and she sincerely hopes that Mrs Calhoun will expect little from her besides sitting silently by her mother-in-law during such occasions.
There will be time to get away, she tells herself; she will find little escapes.
Cato is bored of her. He tugs off his collar and throws it across the room, his lip curls petulantly, the white cravat crumpled in his hand. Katniss looks down at the bouquets on the heavily embroidered sofa. She wishes he would go back down to the saloon and play cards. She cannot think why he takes any heed of what Mrs Mortmain says. Katniss stopped listening the day they arrived at the hotel and remained unmoved when the older woman followed her to the bath house each morning dispensing her wisdom as they sat in the springs. Katniss felt her remaining health and vigor seep away into the water, but it had nothing to do with Mrs Mortmain.
Cato is sweating and he smells of whisky. She doesn't tell him to go. Exhausted from the journey she asked him to sleep in the dressing room on their first night and he squeezed her face, his thumb digging into one cheek and his fingertips pressing against her other cheekbone. He squeezed until she began to cry hot angry tears.
"That woman is a bitch," Cato says.
Katniss stares at her hands folded in her lap.
"Why in God's name would she think I care a damn what her husband would do on my plantation?"
It is not a question so Katniss doesn't answer.
He paces, ripping at his cuffs and dropping them on the floor.
Katniss remembers the scarlet flush that crept over her husband's face during the interminable dinner, the oblivious matron talking on and on, barely pausing to swallow her venison, a globule of gravy remaining at the corner of her thin lip.
"Does she think me stupid?"
"I don't think so," Katniss says.
He stops mid stride and turns on her.
"You don't think so?"
She tries to school defiance from her features but it contorts her brow automatically.
"Get up."
She stands and Cato places one finger under her chin to tilt her gaze up to his. He kisses her face. Katniss jolts, recoiling from him as she feels the sting of his teeth on her cheek. He clamps a hand to the small of her back and her fingers are shaking as she reaches to push his face away. Katniss tries to stifle a yelp but it escapes her lips as pain travels along her cheekbone. She recalls the nip one of the horses once gave her when she removed its bit, the way she jerked away immediately and struck the animal on the nose. She cannot strike Cato. He is biting her and she is afraid to move in case his jaw closes completely on her flesh. She can fend off a horse but not her husband. Tears burn her eyes and she raises her hands to hold onto his forearms until, finally, he lets go.
Slowly, he replaces his collar, cuffs and cravat, and leaves the room.
Katniss pretends to be asleep when Cato returns hours later. She holds herself as still as possible, her hands closed into fists beneath her chin. She sleeps little that night, and the next, until Mrs Mortmain declares that the springs seem to be having the opposite effect on the new Mrs Calhoun.
The bunk house is insufferably hot, even in the night, and he can taste the sweat on his upper lip. The air is full and heavy enough to touch, the odour is of twenty men pressed together, sour and companionable. For a moment he almost reaches out and presses his fingers to the shoulder of the man to his left hand side. They breathe, pass gas and snore in their sleep and Peeta wonders if he is the only one awake. Fatigue twists in his muscles and presses him into the mat. The indulgence of sleep beckons but a twitch between his eyebrows tugs and persuades him to stare into the dark above his head until it turns grey.
It is better here, in some ways, he is clear sighted enough to see the positives of his situation. No longer is he beaten by his mother, humiliated by his brothers, forced to endure the petty indignities he experienced back home. Here, his suffering is real, and it is better for it. The money paid for him has secured his father's business and his father loved him more for his sacrifice. They own his body, but there is so much more that they can't reach, that nothing could prise from him.
A noise outside disturbs Peeta and he sits up quickly, trying to make out the position of the gun leant against the wall by the door. He picks his way through the sleeping men and carefully undoes the latch without touching the gun. He has never fired a gun, never intends to. Outside, the air is fresh in comparison and Peeta feels the perspiration cool on the back of his neck. He can hear footsteps.
"Hey," he calls.
A hand appears and hauls him against the wood boards of the bunk-house. Peeta resists until the face of the plantation's over-seer is revealed in shadow close to his, the breath stale and heavily liquored.
"What are you doing out of bed, boy?"
"I heard a noise."
"You hear a noise round here, you close your eyes tighter."
"Yes, sir."
He pats Peeta's cheek with a rough palm and releases him.
"If you can't sleep you're not working hard enough. Now get."
Haymitch is gone as suddenly as he appeared and Peeta doesn't move immediately. He looks up at the house, through the branches of a cedar to a lighted window above the portico, a dark silhouette is back lit, there, and Peeta's chest shudders. It is a woman. He cannot remember the last time he was within feet of a woman, unless he counts his mother. She must see him, as he sees her, or else she is merely looking out into the darkness. It can only be the mistress. The other boys have talked of her a little, that she is beautiful in an insolent sort of way, she is not a natural match for the Master, that she is little more than a girl and barely any time ago she was riding horses bare back on a broken down plantation less than five miles away. She sounds fascinating, and Peeta can't help but wonder if she is the girl he saw on a cantankerous black stallion without a saddle, the day the truck broke down and they travelled to work here by foot. He had brought up the rear, an infected mosquito bite sending hot ribbons of pain up his leg, and she had tossed him a handful of berries wrapped in a handkerchief. He still has the handkerchief, an uneven K stitched into the corner.
He is cushioned by the darkness, protected by it, and he continues to tilt his head up to look at the window. Then, suddenly, the light is out, and she is gone.
Peeta sits down on the ground, his fingertips swirling invisibly in the dirt, a slight breeze at the back of his neck. There is birdsong, somewhere, shrouded in night, a lonely single call, the same note repeated until it feels like the creature is crying for help.
She isn't a woman; she is a girl, the girl with the berries.
She stands a few feet away from him and Peeta scrambles to his feet. Like a ghost in her white night gown, he almost expects her to vanish when his eyes settle uncertainly on her face. It is dark, but not so dark that he can't see the others were right; she is beautiful, and defiant.
"You were staring at me. I came down to ask why," she says.
"I… well, I was just getting some air, too hot to sleep."
"Oh. It must be stuffy in there." She gestures at the bunkhouse and Peeta nods. "Maybe you should sleep outside."
"I don't think Haymitch would like that."
"No, I suppose not."
"Can't you sleep?" he asks and their eyes meet, she holds his gaze and he wonders at his own insolence.
"I don't sleep well," she says. "I'm going to get a cold drink. Do you want one?"
Peeta shakes his head. "We drink out of the well in the morning."
"Ok, good night, then."
And, she is gone.
He sees her the next day, in the carriage with Mrs Calhoun Senior on their way to pay calls and Peeta stops in the field, straightening his back and pretending to squint into the sun. He wonders at the risk she took coming downstairs last night, her husband must sleep soundly. She seemed like an apparition, covered in weak moonlight, and the image of her stayed before him for much of that restless night.
Peeta watches until the carriage disappears through the trees at the end of the driveway. The leather of a whip slashes across his bare calves and a bolt of pain travels up Peeta's back. He turns to see Thread, dark eyes unsmiling, he raises his arm again and Peeta bends down, picking a boll of cotton and rolling it between his fingers before dropping it into a basket. His blond hair glows in the sun, tousled bleached waves dark with sweat around his hairline, perspiration trickling down his back. He wishes he could swim, plunge into the river two fields over with the rest of the boys, let the water cover his face, it must be quiet down, there. He wonders if she can swim.
Momma, as she instructed Katniss to call her when she returned from honeymoon, is taking tea with Effie Trinket in order to discuss the end of season ball. No input is required from Katniss so she watches a fly stuck between the window and the screen, butting its head in vain and darting in random directions as if spinning a web. Effie's morning room is white and pink and there is the head of a deer on the wall. Katniss can tell that the eye socket has been reconstructed and a marble placed inside it, and she wonders if this woman in a high lace collar shot the animal cleanly through the eye herself. She doubts it. Effie sits with her back to where it's mounted, maybe she always sits like that in this room, with the creature looking down on her, its tongue protruding slightly from its mouth. Perhaps her husband makes her have it there, watching. It is the kind of thing Cato might do.
"I feel like I've been preparing for this since the day after last year's ball," Effie says.
Katniss smiles woodenly. Her eyes drift back to the window, the white of a cotton field visible through a gap in the willows. The boy will have sweat running down his back, heat reddening his cheeks, his arms straining, the muscles in his back curling. She remembers the wide eyed gratitude when she threw him those berries, such a small thing. He sleeps every night in that bunk house, pressed against other men, perhaps it makes him feel safe, being part of a unit like that; belonging. Katniss scolds herself inwardly, how can belonging be any consolation for a slave?
She sips her iced tea. Effie waves her fingers at the red haired maid who adds two further ice cubes to Katniss' glass.
"You look rather flushed, dear."
"A newlywed glow," Momma says, her sapphire eyes holding Katniss' for a second too long.
Effie launches into a detailed description of the table settings she is having delivered from the Capitol and Katniss struggles to keep her eyelids from drooping. A moment later Momma taps her arm with a fingernail.
"I think we should get some air."
Katniss blushes and apologises, feeling slightly unsteady as Momma takes her arm. Effie invites them to take a turn around the plantation should they wish, but will be unable to accompany them due to the strength of the sun, which Katniss finds hard to believe could penetrate the powder on her face.
Momma's arm is thin through her own, almost frail, belying the poise with which she carries herself.
"I find we don't know each other very well, Katniss," she says. "I should like to know you better."
Katniss can think of nothing to say, and she squints under the brim of her hat, her eyes meeting the line of trees that she knows mark the edge of Gale's land. There is nothing she trusts herself to tell Mrs Calhoun. The woman knows about her family, knows that Cato provides generously for them, and she has probably guessed about her mother's illness. All of that is history that doesn't bear repeating and she knows for a fact she will never bring it up unless her mother-in-law does first. For a brief moment Katniss feels cushioned by the familiarity of their surroundings, the coolness of the grass tickling her feet through her sandals, and considers asking Momma just what she should expect from marriage, of how to survive it. There is nobody she can ask that question of.
"I know that you don't sleep well."
Katniss doesn't look at her.
"You may wish to try some of my tablets."
"Oh, no thank you."
Momma stops and Katniss is forced to meet her gaze.
"Maybe not yet, but you will need them."
Katniss frowns, but Momma's face gives nothing away, her thin lips are painted red and her mouth twists for a brief moment before she begins walking again, slightly ahead. A long strand of silver hair hangs loose from her rigid coif and she carries her hat between her fingers. Katniss knows nothing about her, either, and as her mother-in-law walks into the orchard she thinks she would rather not know.