Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.

Author's note at bottom. Enjoy :)

~"Ideals are like the stars; we never reach them, but like the mariners of the sea, we chart our course by them." –Carl Schurz~

Time has become meaningless to me.

It feels like an eternity has passed. Or years. Or weeks. Or days. Or maybe even hours. I no longer keep track of what day it is, or what the hour hand points to on the clock. For me, the day begins by the sunrise, and ends at the sunset. And I'm okay with that.

Life has come to a standstill, and that scares me, for I have begun to feel secure. When one feels secure, they feel that all of the atrocities of life cannot reach them. This is a lie. When the wretched things do come, people who are so enveloped in their false sense of security do not know how to handle it, and perish. I do not want to become one of those people.

I do not feel entirely secure, however. I know that Plutarch said that the Capitol cameras have been smashed to smithereens, I know that, I do. But that hasn't prevented me from feeling that someone is watching me. I have trouble using the titular phrase 'private life.' I've never had a true private life. Every time that I've thought I was out of the public, ever-watching eye of the Capitol, I was wrong. I made that mistake when I kissed Gale, once. To phrase it better, he kissed me.

I don't know where he is for sure, speaking of which. I've heard rumors that he's working some fancy job in District Two, frills and all. Panem was announced free of districts, but I have a hard time thinking that way.

About Gale, I'd like to say I care that he's gone. We were best friends. But I'm past that. I do hope, though, that he's found someone to lean on during hard times, if any, and I hope that whoever it is will make him happy. I try not to be too sentimental these days, but it's hard not to sometimes.

I've been living life quietly. Peacefully. I am in the woods most of the time, but it's not always for hunting. I perch myself on a branch, and stare at the scenery, and listen to the gentle cries of birds as they flutter past me. I walk on and on until my feet begin to ache. I sometimes go swimming in the ice cold water, even though my toes and fingers go numb. After every expedition in the woods, I always make sure I bring home something to eat, though. Last time I shot down a flock of birds, and placed them in a cloth bag. I then went home, and cooked them thoroughly.

I do miss having a partner. I don't mean a hunting partner. I guess you could say a friend. Well, I might as well be specific about who I miss.

Peeta and I spend some time together, but I'm scared he'll have a relapse, so I give him plenty of time in the day by himself to mull things over. Every time I start talking to him about anything remotely serious, I feel like I'm manipulating him to get answers. And I'm not trying to do that. It scares me, though, because I still have brutal tendencies, tendencies that are not altruistic.

Peeta's hair has grown shabby; small curliques have covered the burn scars on top of his forehead. It's odd, but I feel like running my fingertips through his soft hair, and to have him lean the side of his face into my palm like he used to. But those are the two key words: used to. He's gotten better, though. He's advanced. We do spend time together. We sometimes touch each other. But it's in a platonic way. I hold back, though. I'm not bold like I used to be. And sometimes I catch him sneaking glances at me, his eyes wanton, although it could just be my imagination.

Haymitch said that we have a lot of 'sexual tension', but he quit that talk after I poured an entire bottle of his alcohol down the drain.

I don't have any sexual feelings for Peeta. Well… okay, maybe slightly. But I want nothing more to regain what Peeta and I had before. This thought makes me laugh, because that would mean the old Peeta would have to come back. I hate myself for this. I took advantage of the old Peeta's love for me. And when I realized I loved him back, it was too late.

Now, I do not know where I stand with him. Now, I don't even know if I want any sort of romance with him because I fear I'll hurt him badly, that I'll twist his soul even further than I already have. I used to cry about it, but I stopped that, because my tears will not solve a damn thing.

I did kiss him, during the rebellion, and he did not attack me. He shuddered, and kept his lips pressed to mine, my hands gripping his stained face tightly, never wanting to let go.

I have never been one for romance, and love. I still am apprehensive towards marriage, and volatile towards the thought of birthing children. I think that I deserve a life of solitude, of celibacy, but that sounds like the lives of saints I have read about. And saints have not killed people, or hurt the ones they love. And I've done both of those things. I've killed people without even thinking about the family they would leave behind. And I've hurt my mother. Prim. Peeta. Gale. I've hurt so many people.

The worst part is that, secretly, I don't even want a life of solitude. I think I do, but that's a lie. I pretend like I do. When I'm alone in the woods, shooting arrows, and plucking berries, I think that it's somewhat of a fulfilling life.

But then, when Peeta occasionally comes over with the book, and his jar of paints, and saltwater, I feel sharp pangs in my blackened heart. Whenever it gets to be very late; I gauge 'lateness' by how exhausted we get, he gets up to leave, and I have to resist the urge to grip the lapels of his shirt and beg him to stay. That would make me desperate. And it kicks at me. I've never needed romance, or even friendship. I was fine. But now, human contact soothes me, where before it was despicable.

It's reaching sunset right now. I've already brought home food for Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. I forgot to mention that. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter usually come over for dinner. I think that Sae feels bad for me. But she doesn't say so. I like the company, actually. She helps me cook because I am really not good at it…still. That's when I miss Peeta the most, actually. We then collect by the table, and eat silently, with her making occasional comments, and asking me mundane questions.

Sometimes, even Haymitch joins. It's almost comical because he's always drunk, and he makes offhand statements that crack at my rigid veneer. I still haven't smiled, though. I don't remember the last time I did.

But today, it was just our usual trio: Me, Greasy Sae, and her granddaughter. Now, the day is waning, and I'm curled up in a chair, watching the rays of the sun diminish into darkness. The fire in the pit is crackling, and its warmth is soothing. I bend down to light a match, and ignite a lamp, because I can't really see.

I hear a knock on the door, and my heartbeat grows exponentially, because I know exactly who it is. That does not stop me from peering through the peephole, though, just in case. The Hunger Games have left me with a permanent sense of paranoia.

Peeta is staring at the door with bright blue eyes, his blond hair shaggier than usual, a dark bag draped over his shoulder. I open the door, and he says hello.

"I'll make tea," I offer, as he deposits his bag full of our necessary materials on the chair I was just sitting in.

"That'd be nice," he says, and rubs his hands together. "It was kind of chilly outside."

"Yeah, I've noticed that too," I say, and put on the kettle. We mainly make small talk, about superficial, banal things. It hurts too much to bring up anything else.

He opens the bag, and pulls out the sketchbook. I can hear the familiar sound of crisp pages being turned, and the clink of lids being screwed off their respective jars.

I pour the tea into two cups, which both have chipped edges, and set them down on the coffee table, where he has set up our usual apparatus.

"Thank you," he says, as he lifts his cup with his fingertips, positioning it by his mouth.

"Careful, it's hot," I reply, stating the obvious as I root through a drawer for my fountain pen and inkpot. I find them, and walk back over to where he's sitting.

"I wasn't aware of that," he jokes.

I sit across from him, as his eyes dance over mine, and open the inkpot. I dip the tip of the pen in it, sloppily, and a drop of black smears on my fingertip. I sigh, but Peeta has pulled out a cloth from his bag, and before I can do anything, or say anything, he gently takes my hand, as though it's a fragile bird, and swipes the cloth over my stained skin.

He ends up smearing it even worse, and as we stare at each other, we simultaneously break out into dim laughter, which honestly hurts my face, as those muscles are rusty from disuse.

I shrug. "It's fine," I say, and he shakes his head.

"That was a dumb attempt."

"It doesn't matter."

We stay silent as he flips to a page of… of…a drawing of katniss. The plant, not me. It's actually a pretty plant: it consists of three milky white petals, with a black globe in the center that resembles a blackberry. The flower is bordered by reflective tear shaped leaves.

"It's a simple sketch," Peeta said, "I started it at home. It's not colored in yet, though."

I raise an eyebrow, and study him as he leans forward to darken one of the lines of a singular petal. Was this supposed to mean something? Or was I just overthinking it? I know the plant extraordinarily well, considering that I'm named after it, and I used to spend time digging up its roots with my father, back at the old pond. I didn't realize that Peeta thought it valuable enough to include in our book, which is full of a variety of various things: people, plants, places.

I decide not to ask him about it. There is the implication that he put it in there because he misses me, but I shoot this down sharply because there is nothing about me that he could possibly miss.

"That's not true," Peeta suddenly says, and I stare at him, eyes widened.

"What'd you say?" I ask, my face swarmed with a red blush.

"That's not the right hue," Peeta said, looking slightly confused, holding a beige coloring pencil in his right hand. "Are you okay, Katniss? You're kind of red."

"Yeah, I'm okay. I just…I just didn't hear you," I blabber, and look down, studying my fountain pen voraciously.

"It's alright," he says softly, and he resumes his work.

We stay like that for a while, him working on other pages, and me filling out the description for the things he's drawn in fully. There are no truly emotional pictures to detail tonight, so, there's no threat of tears.

As we're working, I notice him constantly pushing his hair out of his eyes, air pushing out through his nose faster than before.

"Peeta," I suddenly blurt, fighting the urge to smooth back the hair itself. I have a suggestion that will end his exasperation, but, it might be a bit too audacious.

"Yes?" he says, still absorbed with coloring in the stem of a plant.

"Do you want me to cut your hair?"

He looks at me. "Why?"

"Well, you keep pushing it back," I reason, my face reddening once more. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

He looks contemplative for a moment, and says, "Okay. But you don't even know how to cut hair."

"I'll figure it out," I say, and begin to stand up. He places his drawing utensils down, and stands up as well.

He follows me into the kitchen, where I pull out a pair of shears.

His eyes widen. "I'm kind of scared, now, actually."

"Why?" I say, and snap the blades. "Perfectly harmless."

"Okay, I don't trust you," he says, and backs up, his hands raised in the air.

"Why not?" I say, the sides of my mouth twitching.

He suddenly runs off through the house, and I'm chasing him. It's a playful game, and he laughs as I leap over the couch, and almost trip.

"You- you can't win this-" Peeta gasps, and tears off into the upstairs compartment.

"That's what you think," I gasp back, my lungs ready to collapse.

I find him in my room, trying to enter the closet in a futile attempt to hide. As I push open the doors, he suddenly grabs the left area between my rib cage and hip, which tickles so much, I spasm, and drop the scissors. He does not stop in this feat, and ignoring my kicking legs, and continues tickling me, his hands flitting across my stomach.

In response, I shoot a hand out, and grab at his ribcage, and find, with much satisfaction, that he's ticklish too.

My brain ceases to think, and all doubts are pushed out of my head as we roll on top of each other, crashing on my bed, his heartbeat racing against mine, us both eagerly trying to attain the upper hand.

"I'm winning," I gasp, as I flip him over. He grabs my wrists, his long fingers wrapping around each with ease.

"We're at a stalemate, I think," he says, and looking down, I realize, with muted horror that I'm straddling him.

I don't move, though. Instead I just say, "Peeta. I promise. I'll be careful. Can I please just cut your hair?"

We stare at each other for a full uninterrupted minute, and he finally says, "Maybe tomorrow."

Silence ensued. I still felt very awkward, so I detached myself, and then lay on my back, on my bed. A wave of fatigue had suddenly swept over me. I haven't had any joy, any laughter, any games…in the longest time. I look over at Peeta, who's the symbol of relaxation currently: his hands are clasped on his stomach, his head is propped on a pillow, and he's gazing at the ceiling with almost dreamy eyes.

My muscles tense, and I almost expect him to leap up and strangle me, to try to squeeze all of the life out of my lungs, him yelling, "MUTT. MUTT. MUTT. KATNISS IS A FILTHY MUTT."

I expect this. We haven't done anything like this in the longest time…it almost feels weird. Okay, it feels weird. The aftermath feels weird. Before, when we were practically groping each other, it didn't. I don't even know what to feel.

It's silent for a while, but it isn't that awkward, actually. It's nice when you can just be silent with someone, without it being this awkward mess where you feel like you have to talk. I would say that's an indication of how close you are with someone, but that's a huge joke to describe our relationship. We are fragments of our past selves. Our 'relationship' if you can even call it that, is so fragile. So vulnerable.

"Katniss," Peeta says, suddenly, in a tranquil, soupy voice, clouded thickly like someone who has just woken from a nap.

"Yes?" I say, blinking slowly.

"Have you ever wondered what's outside of Panem? Is there something else in the world that… we're missing?"

I close my eyes, and think. I have, surely. But at the same time, it angers me as well. If the other countries saw how awful the Capitol was treating its citizens, then why did they not step in? Why did they just sit there and laugh at us? Or what if those other places were just as bad as the Capitol…maybe even worse? In school, we were taught that there were other places, once, but they disintegrated into sand and broke down into numerous particles that lay at the bottom of the ocean. I didn't buy it, but I didn't spend too much time reflecting on it, seeing as I was too busy occupied with finding food for my family.

I look back at Peeta, who has now turned on his side, and is facing me.

"I…" I start, looking into his expectant eyes, not knowing what to say. "Yes," I say, finally, "I've thought about it."

"Panem…" Peeta says, his eyes shifting, his face adopting a downcast look, "Is full of…memories…that…" He exhaled sharply.

I grow increasingly uncomfortable, and am slightly fearful he'll relapse.

"What is it, Peeta?" I say, gently. I reach out to touch his shoulder, which is trembling slightly. At my touch, he loosens up considerably.

"Everywhere I go, I think of everything that happened. Doesn't matter what district I visit. Doesn't matter what I do there. I think. And those thoughts torment me." His pensive eyes sweep mine, willing for a response. And I give it.

"What are you trying to say, Peeta?"

"I want to leave Panem."

Before, I would have laughed at him and maybe even said he was an idiot for thinking so. But now…if I had the gall to want to leave District 12 before, then what was stopping me now? I decided to voice my thoughts.

"But Peeta…we don't even know what's out there…"

A gleam, that familiar gleam which always used to be in his eyes has reappeared, the first time in a long time. "No. We won't know unless we look."

"What if we get killed out there, Peeta?" I say, my voice sounding indifferent, my thoughts in contrast to that tone.

"We've thought things like that before," he pointed out.

We are silent once more, musing over what he had just said. Possibilities. Chances. Opportunities.

"It's a safe haven here," I say, although I don't fully believe it, "Why would we want to go?"

"I don't believe you really think that," he said.

I bite the inside of my cheek, but then immediately stop myself, as that was a nasty habit, and made eating painful.

"No," I admitted, "I don't. I'm scared of going out there. And how would we even go? It's insanity."

"We could ask Plutarch…"

"But then it'd be a whole expedition. And I really don't want a million cameras being pointed in my face."

"We'll figure something out. We'll get a boat."

"A boat? A dingy boat?"

"Well…"

"What if we starve to death because we can't find anything?"

"We'll bring plenty of food."

"But what if we run out?"

He sighed, and smoothed a hand over his features. "You're crushing my dreams."

"I'm sorry," I say, "I'm a realist."

"Look where that's gotten us," he suddenly said, almost mockingly.

I don't know what to say. I don't know if that's targeted at the…Hunger Games, or Panem, or me in general, and all of my mistakes. I subconsciously turn my back to him, a wrinkle forming between my eyebrows.

I feel the slightest pressure on the small of my back, and goosebumps erupt as I realize it's Peeta's hand.

"I wasn't trying to make you upset," he says, and his hand leaves my flesh, the ghost of it still imprinted.

"I know," I say. And he wasn't. He's not the same person. And I'm too cynical. I have to remember that.

"It's late," he says. "I've got to go. I'll…we'll…"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," I offer, sitting up. He's gotten up, and is walking out the bedroom door. Once in the kitchen, he gathers up his various tools, and places them gently in his bag.

"Oh," he says, "I've almost forgotten." He reaches into the bag, and pulls out a lumpy piece of cloth. I raise my eyebrows slightly, and take the package. I open it to reveal two blueberry muffins, which have cooled off by now, but still smell divine. The crust is golden, and the blueberries have oozed their violet juice through the tan color of the top.

"It looks amazing," I say, looking up at him.

"Tastes even better," he says, cracking a small smile, avoiding my gaze as he ties his bag shut.

"I bet," I say, and follow him to the door. I open it, and a zephyr barrels through, nipping at both of our faces. "You're right, it is cold."

"Yes," he says, looking at me.

"I'll consider what you said," I say.

"You don't have to. It's dumb."

"No," I say, almost weakly.

"Goodnight, Katniss," Peeta says, and nods towards me.

I say goodnight as well, and shut the door softly.

Author's note:

Hey, there! The Hunger Games are a wonderful book series, and I've been obsessed with Katniss and Peeta since day one. At the end of Mockingjay, I wanted to know how exactly they found each other again, and decided to make up my own version of how they leave Panem and embark on a crazy journey.

This writing style, for this story, is a bit different from my usual, which consists of long sentences and is very descriptive. I usually do third person as well. I decided to do first because that's how the Hunger Games are written.

I'm also nervous, because I've never wrote for this fandom before. It's rated M for sexual situations in later chapters (not so late compared to my other 2 stories). There may be one or two gory nightmares I'll throw in at random in the story. Depends.

Don't be shy to leave reviews! :)

-skywriter23

xoxo