A/N: WARNING! THIS FANFICTION CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MOCKINGJAY!
Peeta's handcuffs rattle slightly as he shifts in his sleep. Not sleep, I think: he blinks blearily, his eyes widening from blue slits to full wakefulness, and raises his head. He's not quite looking at me. Instead, his eyes stray to Katniss' sleeping form, mostly buried beneath a pile of furs.
For a while, I watch him from the corner of my eye. If Katniss knew him only poorly before they wound up in the arena together, I didn't know him at all. My memories of him are few and fuzzy: a few sightings in the village, or through the window of the bakery, never a word exchanged between us. Never a reason for it. But that was before.
Something changes in Peeta's eyes while they rest on Katniss. They don't freeze into stabbing icicles like they did before. Now they actually seem to soften somewhat. I wonder if this reaction is because of the treatment he'd been recieving in 13, or if he's fighting the effects of the hijacking on his own.
I think I recognize the expression on his face from those damned clips of their first Hunger Games. In the cave. Before they swallowed the berries.
Seeing this expression used to ignite a fire inside me. Jealousy. Even now, I'm not sure exactly what I was jealous of. Because he was kissing Katniss, when I'd wanted to kiss her for two years? Because he was protecting her (trying to, at least) when that was my duty, my responsibility? Or because I . . . ?
I think I love Katniss. Even now. I think.
Anger and hate have always come easy to me, but it's hard to hate Peeta. You wouldn't think so, after what he's done. But in a way, what he's done for Katniss-both in the arena, and out of it-outweighs all that. Makes it hard.
I see his throat working as he swallows, and in the dim light, I notice the dryness of his lips: the cracks and flakes. He's probably dehydrated. Without giving myself much time to think it over, I reach into my bag and withdraw a canteen, twisting off the lid.
"Psst. Peeta."
His gaze flicks toward me. Silently, I rise and creep closer to him. Then I press the mouth of the canteen to his lips and leave it there as he swallows gratefully.
"Thanks for the water," he whispers after a while.
"No problem." As we talk, I study the way his mouth moves, the way it wraps around words, and the way he laughs: from somewhere in his chest. His heart.
I hear myself telling Peeta, "No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that's the only way to convince her you love her."
And now, right now, I think I finally understand. If that's what it takes to prove love to Katniss . . . then I can never prove it. There's too much on me. Too many lives depending on me. I used to imagine disappearing into the woods with Katniss, quietly building a life together. But that could never be possible. Our responsibilities and sorrows are too great. Their combined weight would crush us both.
Even if I loved her and she loved me, we would love each other wrong. She is fire, and I am fire, and together, we would be explosive. Our love would blaze and die.
I used to despise Peeta-for what he had growing up (stability) and for what he had in the Hunger Games (Katniss). The very mention of his name made my jaw clench.
But looking at Peeta now, I can't help but remember the tenderness that his eyes and hands and words used to hold for her. He so plainly offered his whole being to her. Everything.
I am incapable of giving something like that. I am incapable of receiving something like that. I wouldn't know what to do with another's heart. It isn't something I can carry in my pocket. How do you carry love?
Maybe it's that my heart is too full already: of worry, of guilt, of love for my family. I think Peeta knows how to carry Katniss around in his heart. It's like his heart is reserved especially for her, a private forest for her to live.
That's what she needs, I think: a place to run far and disappear among the branches and brambles. It's what she needs to survive. And maybe, because I can understand that . . . maybe that means I really did love her. Once.