Title: To Be Myself Completely
Author: lereveetlamour
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Peeta/Katniss
Rating: T
Word Count: 6,853
Summary: "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces."- How Peeta rediscovers himself and holds on to the little things.
Disclaimer: I do not own HG/CF/MJ, its characters, or the above quote. Also, the title comes from a song of the same name by Belle & Sebastian.
Comments: I know there is a ton of post-Mockingjay stories out there, but I do love them so and Peeta happens to be my favorite character. I thought it was about time I wrote my own. I wanted to make Peeta a bit darker and unrelenting, focusing on his recovery, and a few moments when he wasn't so dependable or loving. So no fluff, sorry. I'm not great at it, anyways. And don't hate me for the order. I like it this way. Big thanks to ReillyJade for being an awesome beta. Review and tell me what you think.
And you always double-knot your shoelaces.
Peeta Mellark is losing it. Or at least, that's what his wife tells him when he pulls out a rack of bloated bread that blisters and then deflates, defeated. He sighs heavily and cracks his knuckles. To her credit, Katniss puts on a brave face and stuffs her mouth full, looking for all the world like the squirrels she hunts. She tries to say something, but nothing comes out except for chunks of the stuff. And it's everywhere.
When she sees him laughing, she presses her mouth to his and gives him what he thinks is meant to be a kiss before finally spitting out the rest. She wipes her crumble-infested mouth with the back of her hand.
"I don't see why you would need to make any more. It's perfectly fine bread."
The back door swings open and their daughter, Poppy, gallops in on an invisible horse. She pulls it to a stop and ties the reins to the back of a chair. Her head bobs up on the opposite side of the counter; her eyes flicker to the jar near the sink before resting on her father.
"Daddy, Jam hurt himself outside. He won't stop crying." With her most winning smile, showing off the large gap where her two front teeth used to be, she adds, "Can I have some juice and a cookie for my horse?"
Peeta can see Katniss' impatient sulk from the corner of his eyes. She never was one for imaginary things. We never had any use for them when we were young, she argues. But he thinks that's the best part. Before she can stop him, he grabs a cookie and hands it to Poppy, who quickly snatches it and disappears from view. Katniss gives him a light slap on the cheek and scolds him halfheartedly, but her poorly stifled grins give her away.
They exchange a glance that says everything they used to have to convince each other of: this isn't pretend. And it's not imaginary. This is real. And it's so simple that they sometimes wonder why it took so long to figure out. But Peeta can't think of a time when Katniss has looked lovelier and he doesn't think of what could have been, not if it changes the way she looks at him now (or the way he looks back.)
Poppy demands attention as she taps her foot and tugs at Katniss' shirt, whining of juice and horses. Katniss tickles her neck and takes her hand. She asks her husband a silent question and he feels his heart threaten to burst at the sight of his two beautiful girls, but Peeta understands. There's still Jam.
Outside in the layered shadows cast by the setting sun, the small boy sits near the box fort that Peeta had built him earlier in the summer, hiccuping loudly while fat droplets race down his cheeks. His lower lips quiver when he sees his father approaching. A pin drop of blood forms on his scraped knee.
"What happened, Jam?"
Jam pouts and gives him an unhappy look.
"I fell." His leg twitches straight. "Stupid shoes' fault."
Peeta sits down next to his son with his back to the fort. He is careful to not brush against the fresh paint of the sailboat that he drew, his daughter's pigs, his son's trees, or even his wife's lopsided stick figures (her only contribution after he had teased her about her Haymitch.) Gently, he lifts the little boy's leg into his lap. Jam winces dramatically and turns away from the horrific scene.
"I'm dying," he whispers, miserable and serious.
Long ago, something like that would have wrecked Peeta. He would have taken off for the meadow, leaving behind a destructive trail of yanked flowers still hanging limply by their roots and patch of dirt. (Better them than the primroses in the garden or his own hair, he learned.) And Katniss would have gone after him and dragged him back home, like she always did. But now, he only smiles.
"I won't let you die," he says. "Do you remember how to tie your shoes?"
Jam sniffles. "Two bunny ears."
"Two?" Peeta teases.
Jam gives him an exasperated look, as if it's the most obvious thing. Maybe it is. So Peeta double-knots the laces on his boy's tiny shoes, because that's the way his own father had taught him and it's the only way Jam knows. There's a beauty in the simple routine, in knowing. Admittedly, he also hopes that it will prevent Jam from tripping again. A boy has no business with bruises and blood.
As he finishes with the second loop, he pauses and watches the sun start to melt into the horizon. The sky overfills with a soft orange that comes and goes and never seems to last long enough for him to paint. It's okay, though, because he's sure he could never capture it perfectly on his canvas anyways, and he likes the fact that it doesn't truly belong to anyone. It's his favorite color and it will forever be his favorite color. He is as sure of it as he is about anything else. On rare occasions, a lingering shiny memory still tugs at his mind, but never about this. Never about anything that matters.
And it feels so right to not have to doubt, to know for certain, what is real and not real. It feels undeniably good.
You like to sleep with the windows open.
Four days after they move in together, Katniss stomps loudly into his new art room. For once, Peeta doesn't jump out of his skin when she peeks from behind his canvas. With a sly smirk, she pulls out an arrow and dangles it in front of him.
"Still want to learn how to shoot?" she asks. There's something behind her tone that makes him suspicious.
"Why? What are we shooting?"
She scowls and jerks her head towards the doorway. Follow me. She doesn't need to say it because they both know that he will. Their days are now a tug of war between the hours spent together and those spent apart. And neither of them will confess to it, but it's just so much less difficult to not have to be alone, to have one less person to worry about in the morning. (At this point, she's really the only person he worries about anymore and he suspects he's the same for her too, but he won't give her the satisfaction of saying it first. Not this time.)
It isn't until they hop the fence into Haymitch's backyard that it becomes disturbingly apparent what it is she wants to use as target practice. He should have known that she held grudges.
"Katniss," he starts in the sternest voice he can manage, but she keeps walking doggedly towards the gaggle of geese. "It was barely one bulb."
She turns and narrows her eyes at him, as if to say that she couldn't believe he was siding with them, all the while still walking backwards.
"Peeta," she replies, mocking him. "You know it would have eaten more if it had the chance. Haymitch needs to take better care of his damn pets. Then they wouldn't have to eat our prim-". She catches herself, her mouth still hanging open, and quickly mumbles, "my flowers."
"Well, maybe you should shoot Haymitch then," Peeta says, hoping to lighten the mood and calm her down. Instead, she scoffs and gives him a look like she's considering it. "How do you even know which one it was?"
"They're geese. Who cares? Now, come on. Are you going to help me or not?" She slows down enough for him to catch up.
Before he can answer, a voice yells out, "Like hell you are!"
Haymitch comes charging in their direction with a sack stuffed under his arms, swerving and red-faced. Something sinister passes his eyes and Peeta can't help but think that a young Haymitch would have been quite intimidating, back when he was able to charge in a straight line. Surprisingly, when he finally reaches them, Katniss relents her bow to him without much of a fight.
"Don't you kids dare think about laying a hand on my geese," he says crossly, shooting Katniss a glare. "And you, boy? I thought you were supposed to be the reasonable one."
Peeta shrugs, which earns a small smile from Katniss. In turn, he bites back a guilty smirk. Even after everything they've been through, being reprimanded by Haymitch still makes him feel a bit like he did when his father used to scold him for eating one too many cookies. (Not that he would ever think of Haymitch as a father figure; wouldn't dream of it.) Haymitch rolls his eyes and shoves the sack into Katniss' arms.
"You've earned the reward of feeding them."
Almost on cue, the geese surround her on all sides, squawking and climbing over each other to try and get closer. She fights her way through only to have them stubbornly waddle after. A couple snap at her bare skin. She's too busy scowling and cursing under her breath to pay much attention to either Haymitch or Peeta. But Haymitch waits until she's on the far side of the field before leaning closer to Peeta.
"How's it going over in that house of yours? I saw the boxes," he says conspiratorially.
"Yeah? You could have helped out."
Haymitch chuckles. "You two seemed like you had it under control." After an extended pause when the only thing that could be heard was Katniss yelling in the distance, he adds, softly, "So, you're living together."
It's not a question. Most of District 12 knows by now. But there's something else there that catches Peeta by surprise: a tenderness in Haymitch's voice that reminds him that someone else had been there from the start, maybe rooting for them all along.
On their way home, Peeta extends his hand to Katniss, who takes it without a word. She complains about the red marks all over her arms and kicks a goose for good measure when Haymitch's back is turned. Not all bad, she says.
They eat cheese buns on the sofa. She compliments his recipe, telling him it's his best yet, and he pretends to not care as much as he does. The television screen illuminates the room in a deep blue and a chirpy voice speaks in exclamations, but neither of them pay much attention. They mostly keep it on for the noise. The house is too eerily quiet without it.
Peeta is the first one to slip into bed. He waits for Katniss to crawl up from the foot of the bed and collapse into his arms before he even considers shutting his eyes. It's a good thing they finally moved in together because he's not sure he can sleep without her anymore. Instead of the usual crawl, she does something different tonight. She drifts over to the window next to their bed and opens it, letting in a cool breeze. The front of her shirt clings to the hollowness of her stomach. He makes a mental note to store more baked goods around the house.
"You used to - you liked having the windows open when we slept on the train. Why?" she asks.
He can't remember. It was one of the memories that he was never able to recover because no one could tell him. No one really knew. Peeta didn't mind because, in the long run, it was only a preference, but now he wishes he had put a little more thought into it because Katniss won't stop staring at him, still expecting an answer.
Finally he comes up with one and realizes that it's perhaps truer than any other reason he could have possibly had before.
"I don't like feeling…trapped." She doesn't move and, afraid that he's inadvertently opened the door to all those earlier horrors, afraid that she will change her mind about him, he dumbly adds, "Why do you like the window open?"
Her answer comes out in a whisper. "I don't."
Before he can digest her words, she is on his lap, straddling her legs around his waist and squeezing him close. She holds his face between her hands, her thumbs stroke across his eyebrows and her fingers snip at the loose strands by his ears. She kisses him lightly and only pulls away far enough from his lips to say,
"I wouldn't survive without you."
"What?" he questions quietly, worried that he's imagining things. It wouldn't be the first time.
"You heard me," she replies.
And then she blushes and it's so absurd and childish that he wants to laugh, but he can't bring himself to because it's not funny. It's shocking how completely unfunny the whole thing is. She's waiting for him to speak. After all, he was always the one she depended on to know what to say in front of the cameras. Trouble is, there aren't any cameras anymore. Just the two of them left to sift knee-deep through the remains and he's proven, time and again, that he is terrible at this part, the worst. So, what is there to say? I'm sorry about the Games, and the Capitol, and the nightmares, and about Prim. And I'm sorry I'm the only one left.
But she must guess what's running through his mind because she wraps herself ever closer into him and rocks him back and forth slowly, shooing away the doubts and the growing fears. Her hands stay locked on his face and she mumbles into his mouth. None of it makes any sense.
And he has to ask because he is terrified that if he doesn't he won't want to wake up in the morning.
"You love me. Real or not real?"
A slight, half smile crosses her face.
"Real." She gives him one last reassuring peck on the forehead and pinches his chin affectionately.
"Can we go to sleep now?"
He nods and they slide into their familiar spots, clutching blindly at any part of the other that they can reach. Outside their window, somewhere far off, dozens of squawks ring out in the darkened sky. Have they always been this loud? Right before he shuts his eyes, Katniss mumbles, I'm going to strangle every single one of those stupid birds, into the side of his chest and he knows she means it. He also knows that he will be there for it, for everything, always. The idea makes him laugh like it's an inside joke or something, although it shouldn't; it's simply the way it has to be.
You're a painter.
They work on the book most days after Katniss returns from the woods and Peeta finishes up with his baking. There's little talking and absolutely no touching. She paces around, trying to recall the little details that they might have overlooked. He brings just enough cookies to last them a page or two, no more and no less. After the cookies run out and they finish for the night, he packs up his notepad and paintbrushes and leaves out the back door, often with a small, unseen wave.
Peeta can't decide if this is a step forwards or backwards. Before they started working on the book, he was conscious of the fact that she was there. Not in his house, but around, always around. She would make up silly excuses to walk past his house several times a day or wander into his backyard. The worst was when she had asked Haymitch to check up on him. Of course, she had told Haymitch not to mention it was for her, but Haymitch was not all too happy with having to play babysitter again and told him, anyways. This made him furious. If anyone needed a babysitter, it was Katniss, not him.
But now, she's not always there anymore. She goes hunting almost every morning and sometimes doesn't get back until after Peeta goes to bed. And the only time she walks past his house is to get to her own. She is regaining a little bit of normalcy and if he is less selfish, he would be ecstatic for her, but he's not. It feels like she's leaving him behind. He wonders if she will even care if he stops showing up to work on the book. But he can't think like that. He makes up his mind: forwards. It has to be forwards.
One day, after they had finished up a page for his brothers, Katniss stalls in her pacing.
"I want a page for Rue."
Peeta freezes, his body hovering above a chair. Rue. Rue. Rue. How does he tell her? How can he tell her? In the Capitol, with tracker jacker venom running through his veins, they had made him watch their first Games over and over and over, had made him watch Rue die. The worst part wasn't when she took her last breath. That he could deal with, after awhile. It was watching her living again, climbing those damn trees like she hadn't just bled through minutes ago that got to him, an eternal loop that clicked away in his head. Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive. (Click. Click. Click. Click.) He wanted to stop watching. He wanted her to stay dead. Why wouldn't she just stay dead?
"I don't think so." He sinks into the cool leather and fiddles with his pencil.
She glances at the three uneaten cookies still laying on the plate and frowns.
"Why?"
He has three dozen reasons why, locked away at home. Instead, he says he's tired and throws in a fake yawn. It's not very believable, but Katniss lets him leave, even wraps the leftover cookies for him.
The next afternoon, he takes his time. They had agreed to take a break from the book every three days. With nothing else to do, he pours himself a glass of hot chocolate and listens to the refrigerator hum. A knock on the door startles him and he spills his cup. The last person to knock on his door was Thom and that was weeks ago; Haymitch usually barges in.
He opens the door to find Katniss. By the looks of it, she has just woken up. Her hair is a mess of tangles and she is wearing the same juice-stained shirt from yesterday.
"What are you doing here? I didn't think we were working on the book today," he says. She extends out her empty hands for his inspection. He continues, "Aren't you going to go hunting?"
Her face scrunches up, annoyed, and she snaps, "I can't hunt in this weather. It's going to rain soon." There's not a single cloud in the sky and he politely tries to cough away a smile. "Do I need a reason to visit you?" she adds with a hardened determination.
"No, of course not. You just never have before," he says, taken aback. It's only now that he realizes he's been blocking the doorway. Moving aside, he gestures and says, "Come on in."
They're both acutely aware of the fact that she hasn't set foot in his house since before the Quarter Quell. And then, it was only for the cameras and they were cold and distant. It feels about the same.
She doesn't say anything, merely sits on the couch and stares into space as he busies himself in the kitchen. He asks her if she wants some hot chocolate and she replies with a quick no. He offers water and a pastry and she says no to both. Frustrated, he stops asking. If she wants to be difficult, then he has no problem ignoring her. It isn't until the oven timer beeps that he realizes she's not on the couch anymore. He turns it off, but doesn't bother taking the bread out.
"Katniss? Katniss?" No one answers and he runs up the stairs. His prosthetic leg catches on the fifth step from the top, but that doesn't stop him. He crawls the rest of the way. The door to his art room is left ajar and he curses at himself for forgetting to lock it. He tip-toes in, not sure who he thinks he will startle. Inside, he finds her standing in the midst of all his secret ghosts.
(Click. Click. Click.)
It's too much for him to stand. Crouching lowly, he shoves his fists into his eyes, desperate to block out the mutt. He wishes he had another to stifle the scream he feels building up in his chest. Strangely enough, Dr. Aurelius' sessions come to mind. Slowly, Peeta counts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. When he brings his trembling hands down, only Katniss is there. There's a pained expression on her face and she wavers indecisively, torn between staying with him and cutting her losses.
He chokes out, "You covered Rue in flowers when she died. Real or not real?"
"Real." She takes a cautious step closer to him, "You painted a picture of it, of her, during the private sessions before the Quarter Quell. Do you remember?"
"No. Was it any good?" he asks, more to his feet than to her. He feels ashamed of sitting on the ground, still in a semi-crouch, but it's the most he can handle at the moment.
For a second, she hesitates, and then she sits down crossed-legged in front of him. She shakes her head sadly.
"I don't know. I never saw. But, Peeta, these are beautiful."
A defeated sigh shudders through his body. "You don't have to pretend. I can't – I can't remember her as she was." He gestures with his hands around the room. "These aren't her. It's useless, all of it."
Katniss looks stunned. "No, they aren't. They're so much more. You've painted her - I don't know. I've never been very good at this. But don't you see it?" She watches him earnestly before turning to grab a painting leaning on the window sill. "I didn't understand what you meant on the roof about us being pieces in their games until Rue. But you can see it here, in all of these, that she was special. They all were."
Peeta averts his eyes. "I didn't mean to. I just wanted a simple portrait of her and I couldn't even -"
"Does it mean that much to you?" When he doesn't answer, she sighs, "She had these large hazel eyes, like a baby doe and her ears stuck out ever so slightly. She stood on her toes, her arms outstretched, ready to fly away."
Katniss smiles in reminiscence. Grabbing for any sort of drawing material he can find, Peeta urges her to continue and she does. Together, they piece together the fragments of Rue. It reminds him of a jigsaw puzzle Delly and he used to play when they were little, sprawled on the floor of her bedroom. He was bad at that, too.
At the end, with the final piece set into place, a simple portrait of a smiling girl stares back at him. It disturbs him that the loop still clicks away in his head and he debates whether or not to tell Katniss. There might be a chance that she already knows. When he looks up, he finds her intently watching him with tearful eyes.
Instinctively, he reaches for her hand and she flinches away. A small surprised gasp lets him know that she was guided by her own instincts. Of the two of them, she is the better survivor, maybe for the simple fact that she is well-versed in the dangers of trust.
"Don't worry," he says. "You don't have to be scared. I won't touch you." He drops his gaze.
She breathes hard through her nostrils, her shoulders visibly moving. Suddenly, she leans forward and grabs for his hand, hanging on stiffly.
"I'm not afraid. You just have to give me some time to get used to it. But I will, Peeta. I swear I will." She holds on so tightly that his fingers become numb.
He really should pull away, if he cares about her at all. Not because it's starting to hurt, though it does, but because he's beginning to feel that inexplicable anger towards her again. It must be the pain. (It would make sense; he feels pain so frequently these days.) But he lets her hold on, even wants to beg her not to let go, because the normal part of him still craves her sweaty palms and the way it makes his pulse quicken. It's shameful how selfish he is.
You never take sugar in your tea.
He wakes up before the crack of dawn. It's useless to try and drift back to sleep because it's so ingrained in him: baker's boy. By the time the sun starts its morning trek up the sky, he is out the door and trudging his way over to Katniss' with two cheese buns wrapped up and tucked safely under his arms. The significance of today is not lost on him. It's been so long since he's made cheese buns for her that it almost feels brand new. He silently hopes that she can't taste the difference in them. They're not exactly like before, but it's something. As long as they're still her favorite, he tells himself that he'll be satisfied.
Greasy Sae must have seen him coming from the back window because she has the door open for him before he has a chance to knock. He gives a friendly nod and she hobbles back to the oven.
"She's out hunting," Greasy Sae informs him.
Peeta is mildly surprised. This is the first he's heard of Katniss leaving the house. Good for her, he thinks. She needs the woods as much as he needs baking. It's a reliable comfort that's as old and true and concrete as anything else she has here.
Setting the buns on the counter by the sink, he pauses. Greasy Sae smiles into the pot of soup.
"You should stay. She'll be back soon and then the two of you can enjoy a nice, quiet breakfast together."
Peeta's head snaps up, eyes widening. It's never been just the two of them before. Greasy Sae usually stays and cleans up the dishes afterwards. Already a list of excuses starts forming in his head, but she herds him into a chair like he's a lost sheep, sits him down, and pours him a cup of tea.
"I really should – ," he starts, but she shushes him.
"Nonsense. There's nothing so important it can't be dealt with later." She gives him a pat on the shoulder. "Would you like anything with your tea, dear?"
He hesitates before giving her a feeble shake of the head. Accepting it, she leaves, but not without placing a platter of sugar next to his cup. Just in case. Peeta waits until he hears the door shut behind her before he fingers the sugar cubes. Finnick comes to mind, although he's not exactly sure why. It's absurd, really. The way he takes his tea shouldn't weigh so heavily on his mind, but he finds that it does. It gnaws at his insides until he has trouble concentrating on anything else. Of course he could choose again, if he wanted to. But does he? The fact that there's a correct answer seems ridiculous, except he wants so badly to make the right choice.
Katniss' hunting bag hits the floor with a thud and he jumps. She loiters by the archway, sporting a fresh cut on her cheek. He pretends not to see it in much the same way as she doesn't question why he's sitting in her house, alone. It's a constant tip-toeing game that they play around each other, waiting for the other to slip up, not daring to do it first. He invites her over for some tea, like she's the guest here, but she doesn't move, is stuck.
"You don't like sugar in your tea. You always said it took away the taste of it," she blurts out.
Pushing the dish away, he mumbles thanks and takes a sip. It tastes bitter. "Guess I'm losing it," he says with a cold laugh, but there is no humor in his voice and his words fall flat to the polished, wooden floors.
Katniss remains rooted to the same spot. "I didn't catch anything today."
Does it matter? He wants to ask, but thinks better of it. Instead he says, "That's alright. I'm sure you'll get something tomorrow."
For some reason, he starts touching the sugar cubes again, poking and prodding more aggressively than before. He wants her to sit down so they can eat because he's hungry and the tempting aroma from the soup (wild dogs, maybe?) isn't helping and that's what he's here for, right? But she decides to stay by the archway.
"No, you don't understand. I tried to shoot at a squirrel and missed. So I tried again and again, but I couldn't - I kept missing. All my arrows are gone."
Her voice wilts. All the fragile, forced order that they had maintained on their daily breakfasts is sucked up, taking with it the warmth of the room and cooling the soup. Peeta sighs and wonders if it would be rude to get a bowl on his own. Not knowing what else to say, he takes another sip of tea and is pleasantly surprised that it is not as bitter. He smacks his lips in content.
Then, with little in the way of explanation, Katniss starts crying, blubbering like an idiot, and wiping her nose on the sleeve of her shirt. He hasn't heard her cry like this since he died on the beach. Her cries are screeches that raise the hair on the back of his neck. She wraps her arms completely around herself and her fingers clutch to the archway frame behind and he is reminded that he used to do that for her. He could be that comfort again, but he doesn't move, just sits there and drinks his tea calmly, as if he was watching television (or from behind a protective glass.) He hates himself for it, though not enough to do anything about it.
When she's finished crying and her eyes are a puffy red mess, she plops down across from him and pours a cup of tea for herself, dropping in three sugar cubes. He pops one in his mouth and the color drains from Katniss' face.
"Why are you here? I don't need you," she says, jutting her jaw out defiantly. "I don't need anyone." She repeats it like a taunt while shaking her head manically: I don't need anyone. I don't need anyone. I don't need anyone.
Who is she trying to convince? It's pathetic and Peeta wants to yell malicious things at her. He settles for cramming a handful of sugar cubes in his mouth and watches in triumph and pleasure at her disbelief. It's immature and vicious, sure, but he thinks it's worth it for the look on her face.
Her voice trembles as she whispers, "I hate you so much right now."
"About time, Katniss. I'll admit, it took you a lot longer than I thought it would," he replies, swallowing thickly, his throat coated in grainy sludge. And he means it, too.
Feeling like there's nothing left to say or do, Peeta stands up and leaves. She refuses to notice. As he is walking across her backyard, feeling the morning dew brushing up against his legs, he realizes he hasn't said her name in daylight since he left the Capitol. (At night it's different; he wakes up shouting her name so many times he's lost count.) It was probably for the best that he left when he did. Today was a bad day and the soup most likely wasn't very good, anyways.
The next morning, he brings over some modified cheese buns and they eat it together like the day before never happened. This time, Katniss offers him water. While she finishes filling his glass to the brim, she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and Peeta stares at the cut.
"What happened, Katniss?"
For once, it isn't enough, the short respites from loneliness. He wants to stroke her cheek and scar-ridden body, to ask about the squirrels, and to tell her about the nightmares he has some nights when he wakes up and doesn't remember who he is. Mostly, he just wants her and he doesn't quite know how to handle it, not after yesterday. Days like these are the hardest; it is so much easier to hate her.
You're a baker.
For the entire first month since his return to District 12, Peeta avoids any talk of the merchant area like it's the plague. He doesn't want to see, hear, or think about it, especially. Men from the newly-formed rebuilding committee come around occasionally to try and recruit him, though it should be clear as day that he isn't ready to help anyone yet. They never knock on Katniss' door and after one of them is nearly decapitated by a drunken Haymitch, they don't bother with him, either.
Compared to those two, evidently Peeta is the normal one of the bunch, almost functional, at least enough to lend a hand. They seem to have forgotten that he lived in the merchant area for the majority of his life. Or maybe they don't care. It's too much of a hassle to remind them, so he quietly draws his curtains closed when he sees them coming up the hill, hoping they get the point. They're either dense or extremely stubborn because they never do.
One of the men, Thom, corners him at the train station when he goes to pick up supplies sent by Dr. Aurelius. Peeta has never said more than two words to him, but he recognizes him as Gale's mining friend. Thom tells him that they've already cleared out a large part of the town and expect to rebuild, maybe open some shops soon. Peeta understands the unspoken ending: including the bakery.
He nods and plasters a smile on his face, says he's so glad, because he imagines that's what a normal person would do. Yet, his nods must have been too exaggerated or his smile stretched a little too wide because Thom gives him a pitiful look.
With two boxes and a few envelopes in tow, Peeta starts for the Victor's Village. It's not until he reaches the leveled field that he realizes his feet had carried him, unknowingly, to the site of his old home. Only the bare foundation remains and he is surprised by how small it is. Was this really where his family had lived? He tries to make himself miss his father and both of his brothers and his mother. There is only a dull thud where his heart should be and nothing else.
It doesn't escape his notice that everything would have turned out differently if his name had never been picked. His family might still be alive, the bakery still going strong. Of course, there's the alternative. He could be dead too, never getting the chance to talk to the girl with the red plaid dress. Would it have been better or worse? As it turns out, she's been the only constant in his life. He only wishes she was more constant.
Walking to where the display window would have been, Peeta attempts to imagine what the store looked like, but he can't quite recall if the wall trimmings were blue or black, or where they kept the broom. He gets sick in the backyard and walks home with vomit on his shoe, careful to not disturb the dust. The idea flits past his mind to dig graves for them. He doesn't dwell on it because the only thing he can picture being worse than burying a family is burying a pile of dirt.
That night, he lays sleepless in his bed, counting sheep. It's ridiculous to him, but Dr. Aurelius had insisted it would help with his insomnia, claimed that counting is therapeutic. All it does is make him hungry.
When he decides enough is enough and makes his way down to the kitchen, Peeta is struck with a newfound inspiration to make cupcakes. They were his father's favorite, though he was rarely able to eat any. It would be a small way of paying tribute to a man that had taught him so much of the world.
Spreading the necessary ingredients on the counter, he stops, lost. A muscle memory by now, he didn't even think to bring out any measuring cups. But, how much butter does he need? How many eggs and when to add it? He wants to find the recipe, but remembers that the only copy was in the bakery. The flour bag slips from his hands and falls to the floor. A large cloud of white emerges, wisps around in heavy menacing clouds, and coats everything in white, including him, especially him.
Guilt. It's the only emotion he feels so strongly as of late. He's not sure whether it's a build-up from the trip to the bakery earlier or simply a leftover reflex from when his mother used to hit him for being careless and wasteful. No matter the reason, it drives him over the edge he's been dangling precariously on. With a swipe of his arm, everything spills to the ground. He grinds the baking powder with his shoes and pulls at his hair until large handfuls rain down.
Peeta climbs the stairs and onto the roof because, maybe, there will be some escape there, but he finds none. His skin is still pasty white and his nub still gets rubbed raw by the prosthetic leg. He tethers his one usable leg over the side, wiggling it like a play thing, taunting the ones alive. How disappointed his father would have been to see his son like this.
He thinks of not dying, possibly the only thing he's useful for. Incredible, actually, how good he is at it. (Too bad it doesn't seem as appealing as it used to.) Guess that means I'm a survivor too, he thinks. When he was little, Peeta was so afraid of death, of everything that went along with it. But now, the only thing that worries him is the pain. He doesn't think he can stand anymore pain. He won't try anything stupid here because Haymitch lives so close. And Katniss. Glancing over to her house, he catches a movement in her backyard and backs hastily away from the edge. His stomach growls because life goes on.
There is a little over an hour or so until breakfast and he decides to bake some bread, a safe choice. (He forgets that bread has never been a safe choice for Katniss.) Without a second thought, he treads upstairs to take a shower and later throws out his old clothes in the nearest trash bin, convincing himself that they are ruined past repair.
When Peeta arrives at her house, Katniss is already sitting at the kitchen table expectantly. Purposefully, she avoids his eyes. Greasy Sae provides enough of a warm welcome for the both of them. The trio eats in relative silence. A few sparse words are exchanged between himself and Greasy Sae. Katniss picks at her food begrudgingly, but finishes it all nonetheless.
He watches her incessantly, for no other reason than that she is sitting across from him, and waits for her to bring up the roof. We protect each other, she had said once. Does it still apply now that there aren't any apparent external dangers left? It's pitiful that after two Games and a rebellion, the person that they should have been the most anxious at being alone with is the one they had fought so hard to protect. Themselves. Each other. There is no clear line. There is only the residual need to not be on their own. And the need is so great and heavy that it outweighs the fears of being trapped together, forever the tragic star-crossed lovers.
And now he finds himself desperate for her to bring up the roof, to show any sign of caring whether he sat in front of her or not. There is a brief moment when their eyes connect and concern loads down her brows, but it quickly passes and she continues to mop up the rest of the rabbit stew with her soggy bread, oblivious to his devastation.
As he's about to walk out the door, Greasy Sae asks him if there's anything else he wants and he answers with the truth: nothing.
Because among all the muddled and entangled confusion that laces his every thought, he is sure of only one fact: things will never be good again.
The End.