He's crouched in the mailroom of our building, in front of the door that leads to the bins and stacks of unsorted and undelivered mail. It's dark, but immediately I know it's him. His blond waves glow in the low light, the pull and flex of his back muscles visible through his thin t-shirt. Peeta.
I've known Peeta Mellark since we were kids, though it wasn't until college that we became friends. He's the kindest, sweetest, most honest person I've ever met. Which is why finding him here is so incredibly puzzling.
Decades of hunting in the Catskills with my uncle and cousin have given me a velvet tread. I use it to my advantage. "You know," I murmur directly into his ear. "Mail theft is a felony."
He jumps about 5 feet, slamming his head against the door and yelping. I burst into giggles and he scowls, actually scowls at me.
"Jesus fuck, Katniss! You nearly gave me a heart attack! What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Butch Cassidy," I laugh. He finally cracks a reluctant smile, even as he rubs his head.
"Trying, unsuccessfully it seems, to get back something I mailed." I glance over at the door again, what appears to be one of those little eyeglass screwdrivers hangs from the lock. I can't stop the little snort that escapes me. A furious flush climbs up his neck to paint his jaw and cheeks. "Yeah," he concedes. "Stupid idea, right? I should know better than to trust YouTube instructions."
As he keeps talking about some lock picking website and how he was worried that if he tracked down the special tools he needed he'd end up with the FBI standing at his door, I slide a bobby pin out of my hair. The tiny screwdriver is barely strong enough to give me the torque I need, but it's a cheap lock and the pins lift with very little effort.
He's oblivious.
It's only when I snap on the light to the backroom that he stops his babbling. "Holy shit," he breathes, looking back and forth between me and the now-open door. "Where did you learn that?"
I shrug. "Johanna," I tell him, referring to our mutual friend. An odd look passes over his handsome face before he nods in understanding. Jo is great, but she's a serious shit disturber, and we've all been dragged into her hairbrained schemes at one point or another. "Okay," I say as I walk into the narrow room. "What are we looking for?"
"Uh, actually, I can take it from here," he stutters, pushing past me. At my confused look he elaborates. "You shouldn't be involved. I don't want to get you into trouble."
"Peeta," I groan. "I'm already involved, I'm the one who picked the lock, remember? Besides, what's that saying? In for a penny, in for a pound?" I turn towards the bins again, and he grabs my arms, turning me back to him. We're chest to chest in the narrow space, and my breath hitches. His eyes are dark, the pupils fat despite the overhead light. The air between us feels electrified. My pulse speeds up.
His eyes widen fractionally, as if he's realized our proximity just a beat too late, and he releases my arms. But the room is too small; his back hits the wall with a muffled thud as he tries to back away. The rejection in that little flinch is like a slap.
I close my eyes just for a moment to centre myself, then turn back to the bins.
I've had a crush on Peeta Mellark pretty much since the moment he showed up at my dorm room door five years ago, drunk and looking for someone three rooms down. He'd picked me up and swung me around that day, laughing like we were long-lost buddies. The next day he came back, sober, hungover, wearing the most contrite expression and carrying a bag of fresh cheese buns in apology.
I've been a goner ever since.
He's been a constant presence in my life. He's been my study partner, my beer pong partner, my late night Netflix marathon partner. He's the one who stayed with me in the dorms when all of our friends went home for Thanksgiving or Easter break, he was my shoulder to cry on. He was my cheering section at graduation. And now he's my neighbour, one floor up and two doors down. And my friend. Maybe my best friend.
But nothing more.
There have been times, in the years since, that I've wondered if there was any possibility, times when I've caught him looking at me just a little too long. But each one has passed into nothing. He's never said a word about wanting anything more than a buddy to cheer for the Islanders with. Each time we edge a little closer tomore he pulls back.
"Envelope or package?" I whisper; the words, though quiet and banal, feel like a spear splitting the silence.
"Package."
We dig through the bins, side by side, shoulders brushing but not talking. From the corner of my eye I can see him shooting glances at me, hear him taking a deep breath more than once as if trying to decide whether to say something. But he stays silent. So I cave, and point out an envelope in the first bin that's bright purple and reeks of roses. "That one's gotta be from Trinkie." Effie Trinket is our neighbour; she struts through the building in a perfumed cloud, warbling about manners and dressed like an exotic bird. He laughs, and the tension between us melts away.
After twenty minutes or so he shrugs. "I guess it's gone already." I nod, and turn to go. But as I do I realize that he's standing strangely, his arm bent just slightly behind him. And he insists on walking behind me as we exit the cramped room.
When we reach the corridor I glance over my shoulder. "You should probably at least close that door," I remind him, and he startles. Clearly his mind is already elsewhere. But when he turns back I see it. A white package tucked into the waistband of his jeans, half disguised by his t-shirt. I grab at it before I can even think about whether it's a good idea.
Peeta makes a strangled noise; he has my wrist captured and pinned behind me with a speed that speaks of his years on the wrestling team. "Give that back to me," he growls, low and ominous. I smirk.
"Make me."
He won't hurt me; no matter how annoyed or pissed off he is, he's still gentle Peeta. But he's not above cheating. The fingers of his free hand dig into my rib cage, right in that spot he knows is my undoing. I wriggle and howl, but I release my grip on the slippery tyvek envelope. He's backed away and hidden the package behind him before I can even gasp. Sneaky bastard. But I'm undeterred.
"What's in the bag?" I sing-song, advancing on him. His expression is a peculiar mixture of annoyance and fear, and something indescribable.
"Nothing," he mumbles, backing away further, angling himself to make a break for it. He's quick, but I'm quicker.
"Nuh-uh, that's not fair, I helped you, to the victor goes the spoils. Spill it, Mellark. What's in the bag?" I poke at his abdomen, rock hard under my teasing fingers and he squirms.
"Nothing," he says again, higher pitched. "Just drop it, okay?" The package is above his head now. I'm pressed against him, debating whether to jump for it, or climb him like a tree, when his hand lands on my shoulder, physically holding me away from him. I make a frustrated little whine, enjoying the game, these games we play. And then it isn't a game anymore. "I said drop it, Katniss!"
I step back, eyes wide. Peeta has never yelled at me before, not once in five years of friendship. Not when I've yelled at him or frozen him out, not when I've insulted him or chased away his dates. Not even when I've snuck into his apartment to drink the last of the fancy beer he keeps that I can never afford to buy myself. Never once has he been genuinely angry.
Until now.
Maybe a sensible person would apologize. But my feelings are hurt, and anger has always been my go-to defense. "What's the big deal about a stupid plastic envelope? What the fuck is your problem?"
"It's my business, stay out of it." So cold. So final.
We've shared virtually everything over the past five years. Or at least I thought we had. "Fine," I bite out, and turn, bolting for the elevators.
After a few moments his heavy footfalls follow. I push the call button repeatedly, willing the elevator to come faster. But as the doors slide open he's there, climbing into the car behind me. He anticipates my need to escape, blocking the doors, and I huff as they slip closed behind him.
The elevator is mirrored; I stare at my shoes to avoid looking at him. But I can feel his eyes on me. "I'm sorry, Katniss" he says softly. "I completely overreacted. You didn't deserve that." I shrug. He moves a little closer to me, and I struggle to keep the neutral expression in place. "Please look at me," he implores. But I shake my head.
He sighs, and then he's holding out the package to me, a little wrinkled now. I turn away.
"Look, it's fine, Peeta, it's your business, I get it, you certainly don't have to share everything with me." Even if you always have before, I think. The slow as molasses elevator is only halfway to my 12th floor apartment.
"Just look," he says, defeated, and the envelope makes a strange crinkly noise as he shakes it just slightly. Despite my better judgement I do.
It's addressed to me.
I'd recognize the handwriting anywhere; four years of shared class notes mean Peeta's hand is as familiar to me as my own. But there's a sloppiness to it that's not typical. "I was drunk," he says, answering my question before I can even ask it. "I was drunk and Jo was goading me, and I'm sorry."
It's warm and a little damp, as if Peeta's hands are sweaty. The edges of what can only be a book dig into my fingers, laying in my hands, light in mass but heavy in expectation. "You were sending something to me?" He nods. "I don't understand."
"I know. But maybe you will if you open it." He sounds resigned. I stare at it as the elevator slowly climbs, then I shake my head, and press the package back into his hands.
"Peeta," I start, curling my hands around his, keeping them firmly in place. "You were so desperate to get whatever this is back that you broke into a mailroom." My thumbs trace the backs of his hands, back and forth. "Maybe someday when you're sober and when Jo isn't breathing down your neck you'll decide you want to show me what's in this bag." I glance up into those eyes, those fathomless blue eyes, so soft and vulnerable. "I'll wait," I promise.
We've finally reached my floor; I release his hands with a gentle squeeze and leave him in the car. I can feel his eyes follow me until the doors close between us.
I didn't sleep well, but I'm a creature of habit, so I'm awake with the dawn. When I stagger out of my bedroom I find Peeta sitting at my tiny kitchen table, a pair of steaming take-out cups and a greasy white bag in front of him. It's certainly not unusual for him to come over on Saturday mornings and have breakfast with me, or make breakfast for me, but with how strange things were between us last night I'm a little surprised. "Hey," I murmur, sitting in the chair beside him, only six inches between us.
He has dark circles under his eyes and looks nervous. In fact, the last time I saw him look this anxious was in second year, when he had to tell his parents he was changing majors. I held his hand that day. He said it made him feel braver. My hands twitch at the memory. I grab my cup, for something to do. I know without looking that it's hot chocolate, just like I know the white bag contains cheese buns. Peeta's always noticed what I love. Mostly.
"I'm sorry about last night, Katniss," he says. I know that, of course. The cheese buns are his tell, his go-to peace offering. I knew what he was here to say as soon as I saw the bag. But he didn't need to, and I tell him so. He smiles.
I am a little surprised when he pulls the package out from under the table and sets it in front of me. But only a little. "You don't have to," I start but he cuts me off.
"I want to."
"Are you sure?" I ask. He nods.
Tyvek is a bitch to open. He doesn't snicker at me though, simply watches while I struggle, sliding his paper cup back and forth.
Once the blasted bag is busted open I am staring at a book. But not a novel. This is a moleskine, Peeta's favourite for sketching. I've seen him drawing in them a hundred times. He probably has a dozen. This one though is older, softer, the binding is creased and warped from time and use. The page edges, too, show their age; darker and dog-eared.
A folded piece of lined notebook paper sticks out from the elastic that keeps the book closed. I glance at Peeta, seeking permission. He nods.
Dear Katniss; is printed across the top in the same shaky but oh so familiar hand. So many things I should have told you, but I'm a coward. Maybe this book will say them for me. It's unsigned. "You've never been a coward, Peeta."
He laughs. "Katniss I am absolutely petrified right now."
"We don't have to do this," I tell him gently.
"I do," he says. I reach over and take his hand; it makes me braver too. He squeezes it, and then lets go. With a deep breath I open the cover. And I see myself.
The sketch is childish, the perspective is strange, but it's unmistakably me. Black hair in two braids, just a hint of a smile on my lips. Peeta's style and considerable skill is evident, even in this picture that must be nearly fifteen years old. I glance up at him, surprised and grinning. "Keep going," he murmurs, leaning in slightly.
The next page is a few years later, the drawing is much better, and I look a little older, my hair in only a single braid. But it's only the tip of the iceberg.
There are so many pictures of me. There are also a couple of doodles of our classmates or motorcycles or other things an adolescent boy might enjoy, but the majority is me.
The change in the drawings is subtle at first. Full pictures switch to just eyes, my eyes. My braid hanging down my back. The curve of my neck as it must have looked when he sat behind me in high school. My lips. Page by page the pictures become more sensual. The swell of burgeoning breast peeking over the top of a plaid shirt. Bare legs edged by too-short shorts. He's depicted me as desireable. Beautiful even.
There are a few pages missing, I can see the deckled edges left when paper is torn from the binding, but I don't ask.
The last half dozen pages are fairly recent, from college. Me, smiling. Me, sleeping on the shitty couch in the dorm common room. Me, my head in Peeta's lap gazing up, a crown of dandelions on my head. Love in my eyes.
My breath catches at the last page in the book. A drawing that could only have come from his imagination; me, lying in bed, hair fanned across the pillow, bare except for a sheet that barely skims my breasts. My fingers trace the pencil lines reverently.
I'm afraid to ask what all of this means. I want so much to believe what my eyes are telling me. What my heart is telling me. "I noticed you on the first day of school," he says simply. "I haven't been able to take my eyes off you since."
"Why didn't you ever say anything?"
He glances down at where our fingers have become entwined again. I don't remember reaching for his hand. But I understand. Fear. "Why now?"
"Jo said I was blind, that I couldn't see what was right in front of my eyes." His voice lifts in question. Jo's known about my little crush almost as long as I've known myself. When I don't reply, he continues. "She told me I needed to tell you how I feel. Before it was too late." He leaves the words hanging, the end unspoken. Is it too late? I stare into his eyes, eyes I've been in love with for five years. He's not the only blind one.
"Say something," Peeta whispers, his voice strained and tremulous.
"I'm not good at saying things," I admit. Actions are more my forte. So I lean in and kiss him.
There's a heart-stopping moment where he does nothing, is stiff and unresponsive. A moment just long enough for every doubt to crawl through me, for horror to manifest. I start to pull away and he snaps out of whatever trance he was in, moaning low and deep. His lips chase mine, his hand cupping the back of my head. And then he's kissing me, like I have never in my life been kissed before.
The relief that floods through me is so sweet it's almost painful. I've been so afraid, so afraid that he could never want me the way I want him, so afraid that if he knew I'd lose him entirely. And all this time he was afraid of the same thing. I pour all of the years of yearning into our kiss, winding my fingers in golden curls that have tempted me for far too long. I can taste his smile.
We kiss until my lips and lungs are burning, until I'm burning in ways I've never burned before; hot, hungry, desperate.
He pulls back, peppering my face with kisses and breathless laughter. "Is this real? Please, please tell me this is real," he begs against my skin. And I know. This thing between us, this thing that we both felt but fought against for so long, it's everything. Peeta is everything. And there will never be a better time to tell him how I feel.
So I tell him, "Real."