Disclaimer: No, The Hunger Games series is not mine. :(
Warning!: Set during Mockingjay, so expect some spoilers if you haven't read all of the books yet. Also, while there is no M content in this chapter, expect sexy times in later ones. Rated M.
A/N: So... this is a bit AU. It's Peeta's POV after the hijacking rescue. The changes are sort of self explanatory as the story unfolds. Katniss separated from Gale the moment she found out Peeta was still alive. Things like that. Also, it starts out with Katniss sort of losing her grip on reality. OOC, I know, but it's sort of necessary for the plot. Anyway, hope you like. I always like a poem or song that summarizes the central theme of the story. Here's Kate Nash's "Nicest Thing" with some minor editing (just removing some lines). Enjoy!
All I know is that you're so nice,
You're the nicest thing I've seen.
I wish I was your favorite girl,
I wish you thought I was the reason you are in the world.
I wish you'd hold my hand when I was upset.
I wish you'd never forget.
Basically, I wish that you loved me.
The girl is staring at me again. Her lips have gotten thinner since I first laid eyes on her. Her skin seems to stretch over brittle bones, cheeks hollow, dark circles emerging around the eyes. She looks at me unblinkingly, past me, it seems. Her gaze never quite hits mine. Instead she's only staring with these muted eyes that bore into my soul. She's hoping to see it, the glimmer that she has lost, I think. I look down and refuse to show any emotion on my face. The glimmer is gone. There's nothing left for her here. It's best she comes to grips with it sooner rather than later.
Katniss Everdeen. I do know her name, though I try not to think on it. It helps to only think of her as the girl. Making her into a stranger helps the episodes stay at bay. And I know that I loved her. Oh, how I loved the girl. There are certain memories that I am sure are real. Her lying in my arms night after night on the train. She was so lovely sleeping. Angelic even. Her hair would spread out in waves from the characteristic braid, and every time I held the locks between my fingers I felt so lucky, so full of thanks that I was allowed even this small intimate act.
Then there were the kisses, so many kisses, that we shared. The emotions that built from those memories are engrained into my very being. The love. The pure bliss when I felt her lips on mine the first time, like coming home. I know all of that is real. They can show me the tapes all they want, but I know even without their replays.
They show me how she must have loved me back; they show me the cave. They show me the kisses, but all I can see is the forced look that passes over her seconds before each one. She was never really mine during any of those moments; her mind was only on what was visible to the cameras. How many sponsers she could get us. I look at the happiness that is so obvious on my face after each one and the half smile that she barely manages to put together. Pathetic.
Finnick, though, he sits with me when we're alone. He shows me what the others miss. He shows me when I died at the fence and the look of pure horror on the girl's face. She is losing control, weeping, threatening Finnick with her mighty bow. It's all she has, and she is determined to use it as he places his hand over my nose. A few moments pass. He pauses it the moment I wake up. The camera is zoomed in on the girl's look of just... indescribable joy. She is lit up and beautiful and staring at me with these sparkling, gaping eyes that are still streaming tears. We stare at the paused image in silence until he speaks.
"This," he blinks hard before looking me squarely, "this is when I knew she wasn't pretending anymore. This is what you need to fight for." He leaves me alone with her. With this frozen girl that looks nothing like the ghost that romes the halls here. No matter how I try, I can't get back to that place; it's so difficult not to hate. There's this torrent of feeling locked away in a dark place guarded by fear. Fear the Capitol put there. I don't think that I have the strength or the will to dig it out.
But the girl becomes so hard to ignore. She withers away before my eyes as the weeks pass. I hear them talking about her. A shell, they say. She's gone, they whisper, she left the moment she knew the real Peeta was never coming back. Gale, the man I am fairly certain, had the fates delt her a better hand, the girl was always supposed to love, can't bear to look at her anymore. From what I hear, she ended their friendship or relationship or whatever it was the moment she found out I was still alive.
Most of the time I think that she did it out of loyalty. Out of the broken promise that Haymitch talks about sometimes when he thinks I'm not really listening. She left him out of guilt. But then I catch her again, this empty stare with those doe eyes that have sunken back with malnutrition, and I think I know better.
"It doesn't matter anyway," I heard Gale say once in passing, "Her fire's gone. There's nothing left worth loving." It was a spiteful remark. The mask he attempted to cover his features with when he saw me didn't quite hide the pain behind his eyes.
She leaves. They don't tell me where to. I realize, after a few more weeks pass, that they don't think I care. I, myself, am surprised when I find myself at her old quarters. I sit on her bed and imagine her as I saw her not so long ago. I was walking around at night, sleepless, as always, and I looked through the small window on the door. She was lying on the bed, rebraiding her hair over and over as she sang to herself.
It was the first time since I woke up, since I became this other Peeta, that I thought she might be genuinely beautiful. I remember the way I spoke to her. Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you? Yes, I thought as I watched her. She's a real piece of work. But I'm sitting here on the bed thinking about that night and the way her eyes closed as she cried, singing all the while, and even from my place beyond the door I could hear her voice cracking.
I wonder if dragging around all this hate was ever really the solution. Because now that she's gone, there are only these real moments that I'm left with. The times that I dismissed her so easily as nothing. The times after that when she believed I meant it. The frail girl who could once blow up cities and rouse nations with her power was taken so low by what? By loyalty?
No, I know what did this to her. A bit of the torrent is freed somehow as I find myself crying in her empty bed. She loved me. She loves me. Haymitch and the others say what luck it was that the rescue mission, once believed impossible, ended up a success. That it was almost as if the Capitol wanted me in 13. They say, in quieter voices, that I probably would have ended up in 13 anyway, hand delievered to them by the Capitol with a white rose in hand. Because this was always my mission.
The boy with the bread was supposed to stop the girl on fire. I am her weakness. And as Gale has pointed out so bluntly, the fire's gone. The girl is broken. All that I'm left with is this empty bed. Wishing that I had gotten the nerve to walk into the room when I saw her crying and singing and held her at least once. I wish I'd let her see that glimmer.
Another month goes by. I fall into a routine. A tattoo on my arm every day tells me to go to classes or to help rebuild parts of the underground city that were damaged in the bombing. My strength has become invaluable to the construction in 13. I fight to push away memories of the girl. Of the way she touched the muscles in my arms once while we were in the cave and her blush when she met my gaze afterward. I have to fight harder to keep her at bay than I do the episodes that are becoming more and more infrequent.
When I finally see her, she's on television. I watch as they replay coverage of the battle at the Capitol. She is injured and covered in costume make-up, blood, and grime. Her face emerges from a surging crowd. She is badly burned by a mutt, but that's not what has her attention. Not this fiery creature that has all but peeled the very flesh from her body, scortching her hair, but the small blonde figure that I am sure can only be Prim. Little, innocent Prim. And she's dead. The girl's screams fill the air, and even through the worn speakers the agony from her cries reach all of our cores as we watch. Spectators to her pain. It radiates through my being even after she falls unconscious.
Just as I'm positive she's dead, a commentator comes on, voicing over the havoc that is the Capitol that the Mockingjay has survived. She has been stabilized. The voice rambles on about how Snow is in custody and trials and things that should be important but just aren't. The girl's body is being carted out of the square and all I can think is that I should have been there. I should have protected her.
There is the girl and nothing else.
I relay this information to Haymitch. He's one of the only ones who might understand what a difficult realization this is. He throws me a genuine smile, but it turns sad a little too quickly. I ask what's wrong.
"There's no point in lying to you, kid," he says as he leans over with his elbows on his knees, hands wringing, "I don't think she's ready to see you. She's been in a bad state. She just lost the last person in the world she loves." He breathes in, long and ragged. One of his hands keeps returning briefly to the table, searching of its own accord for a glass that doesn't exist. "But they've been asking me about you. Coin wants to get you ready, thinks you should be taken to the Capitol. Appearances, you know? People still like the idea of you two as the star-crossed lovers. If you think you can handle it, we'll take you up there. A few pictures, the two of you holding hands. Nothing too intimate, but enough to show support."
I agree immediately, but something he says nags at me, "She still has me." I say it steadily. I haven't gotten quite used to the idea myself. "She hasn't lost everyone."
His eyes soften in a way that pronounces every wrinkle. When he speaks, he looks older and refined. Every bit the mentor he was supposed to have been the day of the reaping. "Oh, kid. It's not that you're not good, in your own way. But you're not Peeta. Peeta died in that arena. I think even she knows that now."
He gets up and leaves. I stay. I become very aware of my breathing. Suddenly I feel this hole, this ache, inside me. There's nothing else to hear but the pounding in my ears. I see her eyes, those tragic eyes, trying to will me back. No, not me, Peeta. The real Peeta. Her defeated stature and downcast face, the way her shoulders slumped after I finally shattered any hope she had that there was some part of me that loved her still. As the thoughts flood in the ache grows until I start choking.
It's like one of my episodes, but there's no danger here except the one I created. I chose hate. And as I hold myself to stop from shaking, I know what I have to do. I have to get Peeta back. I have to remember who I was. I have to save her. Not because I owe it to her, not because she's the Mockingjay.
I'm doing it because she's too beautiful to be destroyed. Because for some reason beyond my control, she means more to me than my own being. No matter how much I shun her, no matter how many nightmares they soak into my mind, there will always be the girl. I speak her name once. I roll it around on my tongue until I find myself liking the very shape my mouth makes at the sound.
Kat-niss. Kat-niss. Katnisssss. Katniss.
There's a voice, so small and weak as it makes its way past the dark tendrils that snake in my subconscious. I love you, Katniss Everdeen, it says. More words come, stronger now, bubbling to the surface, I'm coming back to you.
There's something surreal about the train ride there. I remember this. I keep eyeing the room where we slept so many times in each others embrace and wonder. I am able to separate the fears from the reality. When it comes to her, though, everything meshes. The gut-wrenching pain that occurred right outside this very train, when she admitted it was all just an act. The triumph when I held her body close at night, hearing her sleepy sighs, and knowing in my soul that she had given more of herself over to me than she ever gave to Gale. He never held her like that. She never trusted him with it.
That's what makes her so damn hard. There is all this pain, but it's our pain. It's the real pain that only made it so much sweeter when I had her, our hearts so close, her breath on my neck and me... I was in Heaven.
I eat. I lie down and try to sift through more muddled memories. I don't even have to ask anymore. Real or not real? Haymitch would know, but the point seems moot. There are no shiny things. And even if there were, I would only push them back. Treat them like a particularly bad nightmare I had that was far too memorable but harmless nonetheless.
"Hey, I want to show you something," Haymitch says, ducking into the room and waiting for me to follow. I huff. There are more important things to be done than humoring Haymitch. The caring side of me thinks it's for the best, though. Haymitch has been sitting next to a glass container full of alcohol for the past few hours. He hasn't had any yet. The accomplishment manages to pull a small smile to my face. I guess I have reason to be proud.
I follow him a few cars down, to a room I can almost place but not quite. He opens the door and allows me to walk inside first. Suddenly I'm surrounded. They're my paintings. And I see the horrors. I see the life springing forth from the brushed canvases to eat me alive. I see Katniss racing towards me before she holds a knife to my throat. Her eyes are a shimmering, blazing red. I dig my nails into my palms and clench my jaw. My teeth grind in an eery way that makes Haymitch step back. There's a look of confusion on his face, and I can see the thought before he vocalizes it.
"Maybe this was a mistake."
No. I close my eyes. I steady myself. The nightmare fades, but not without leaving its share of damage. There is blood seeping from my hands onto the floor. But I'm still here.
"I'm okay," I say, blinking a little too often and not even I, the gullible one, would have believed my smile.
He asks if I need him to stay, but I shake my head and make sure to thank him before sending him off. I want to be alone with these tokens. These pieces of myself. I ignore the portraits, the bloody portrayals, and focus solely on the girl on fire. The memories, those intangible things, can be inaccurate. Sometimes I find myself wondering if I hadn't dreamed her during those torturous nights filled with screams and dispair. There's no glossy shine to the images of the two of us entwined, hands laced, gazes locking from time to time before the intensity built and she laid her head back down on my chest. I knew she was afraid. She was afraid to love me then. I suppose when she finally allowed herself to, I gave her a reason to be.
The moments we shared sometimes seem too perfect, too much what I was hoping for to be reality. But when I see them here, drawn out, I feel as if I'm missing something so very grand by not being with her. There's so much warmth. So much of something magnificent that I keep catching glimpses of but cannot hold onto. Something tells me if I wait long enough, reach for it with all that I am, I'll be able to find it again. I'm tired of everything being a question. I want that certainty. I want what I see in these paintings. I was sure then, if only of this one being.
The train begins to slow. When I make my way back to the dining car I am assaulted by a frantic prep team that was unable to find me. Haymitch is smirking to himself in the corner as they strip me down and zip me back up in this black pinstripe suit. My hair is snipped and combed. They ruffle it a few times to give it some unshapeliness. Obviously this was supposed to have been a rough trip. I cannot seem too glamorous. After a few minutes of heated debate, it is decided that there will be no tie and to leave the first few buttons of the white dress shirt undone.
I am not to smile. They tell me this over and over. I am to stand next to Katniss and be her silent source of strength. Little touches, like squeezing her waist gently or grazing my thumb up and down her arm comfortingly, are acceptable only if Katness deems them so. Today is all about the image of us. She knows I'm coming. She knows what I've agreed to. But even Haymitch warns me to keep my distance unless she gives some sort of sign. We all know how damaged she is right now, no matter what face she shows the cameras.
When the doors open, I think I'm ready. My jaw is set and my eyes are pinched as the brightness consumes me when I step out onto the platform. There is a momentary blindness. My eyes adjust; there is a sea of people on either side of these barriers. A long stretch that has been turned into a pathway is before me. At the very end of it stands the girl.
My heart stops. Everything freezes. There's no mass of odd people that don't know what normal is, their make-up alternating between a terrible attempt to tone down the neon colors they're so used to donning and a small percentage that has decided to show the world their true faces. There are no insects standing every few feet between us, twisting their bodies so that they can get the best angles of our reunion.
They must have found a way to make her eat. It's the first thought that hits me as I stand paralized. I cannot imagine how, given her determination to starve. There is no sag to her skin or unhealthy angles punctuated by jutting elbows. When she finally lifts those perfectly curled lashes to see me, her eyes aren't even the same. There's a spark there. It takes me in for the first time.
She's not a lost little girl seeking a dead lover in the form of another who has taken his place. She is looking at me and seeing me, not the Peeta that- according to Haymitch- is forever lost. Her stare is intense and I can sense her longing. I feel it gather within me as well.
I'm pulled forward. My features remain stoic with every step, and when she comes forward to meet me I have to remember to breathe. She's in a form fitted cream colored dress with a black sash tied about her waist that accentuates her hips. They have done the best they can with her burnt hair. It's in the same braid, but it has lost a few inches. The parts that must have been too short to fit were made wavy and pinned in the back. The few pieces up front are loose and frame her face. It makes her look elegant in an unsually endearing way. She reminds me more of a woman than the girl I fancied so much growing up.
When there are only a few feet separating us, she rushes in. Her arms grasp at my back and I find myself cradling her head that has already burried itself into my chest. When I whisper, "Shhh, I'm here now," I hear her choke and feel her quiver. I feel like I'm holding a familiar stranger in my arms. It's not an altogether unwelcome sensation.
The whole world is watching me carress her hair and kiss the top of her head. Entire minutes pass before she releases me. There are no tear-stains, just a lasting look of resilliance. Our hands fold together.
I think to myself: it wouldn't be hard to love her again.
The day passes. We walk along the damaged areas of the Capitol. We shake the hands of people we have never met. As we stand listening to a speech honoring the dead, her hold on me increases tenfold. When I look at her knuckles, I see that they've turned white. I tell her to breathe and promise this will be over soon. Then suddenly she lets go of my hand, and it falls limply at my side. I can't help but frown as I feel myself grow cold at even this small rejection.
After the ceremony, we're taken to a small stage where we wave and try to look like the strong victors that we are supposed to be. A woman from the crowd with altered teeth shouts at us, "Go ahead and smile! Go on! Kiss her!" We both give her half-smiles and ignore the rest. But within seconds the mass is calling for it, chanting, "Kiss her! Kiss her!" I visibly gulp as I turn to Katniss.
She must be acting. I rack my brain for proof. For anything that might tell me that there was a time when she was this good at decieving me. All I dredge up are the memories of those kisses in the Hunting Games, the ones I had wished were real. But I knew then. I knew that it was only a show, deep inside. Now, as her delicate fingers smooth over my temple and hold my cheek, all I can think is that this is the most real I have ever felt. Her thumb brushes over my eyebrow. Our foreheads touch. Its an achingly slow dissent to her lips.
But when it finally happens, I'm convinced I'm going to go unconscious. Everything is too much. My heartbeat. The way she tugs on my bottom lip a little before she deepens the kiss. I can taste some sort of fruit from her lip balm and mint, and then there's her tongue sweeping over mine. I moan. She sighs. My fingers are tangled in her hair, wishing us to be someplace else. A different time. I'm willing us back to 12, back to the rainy night. I should have run to her with the bread. I should have kissed her then and never let her go.
When we part, I'm dizzy and feel I must be glowing. She seems unsteady on her feet as well. The crowd is errupting in cheers that make us flush a little with embarassment. Nothing between us has ever been private, though. I lean in again and leave a chaste kiss on her forehead. There's a burning in her eyes, and I wonder what made the fire come back.
Soon afterwards, we're ushered to the Capitol building and shown the portion of the guest rooms that are set aside for us. There's a parlor and a small garden off to the side with a little nook-like dining area. Adjoining this section are two bedrooms. One with a King bed and the other a small regular. It's fairly clear once it is only Katniss, Haymitch, and I that Katniss and I were meant to share.
As soon as we're really alone, Katniss leaves to the bedroom and shuts the door unceremoniously behind her. Haymitch plops on one of the extravagantly cushioned loveseats and gives me a thumbs up.
"That was great. Everything about it. You nearly had me tearing up, and that's no small feat." He straightens up and cups his hands over his mouth to amplify his voice, "You hear that, sweetheart? You were great!" We both listen for a moment. He shrugs when there's no response.
It becomes obvious when an hour passes that she has no intention of coming out unless she has to. Haymitch lets me raid his drawers for something more comfortable to lounge around in. Once I'm changed into a pair of loose black sweats and a grey t-shirt, I flop onto one of the other couches and try to analyze the day. Her behavior has me confused. She was the one to embrace me. She was the one who rushed into my arms. She deepened the kiss.
So why was she hiding now? Was it all really just another show? The hole in my chest grows as I take this in. Would I always just be a pawn to her? I might have been able to escape the Hunger Games, stopped myself from being a piece for the Capitol to use any way they chose. But what about her? How can anyone expect me to go back to the way things were when the one who holds the most sway over my progress keeps proving to me that there's no reason to trust her?
I drift into sleep and dream of kisses and fireworks. There's a girl in my arms that feels like home, who holds me to keep the nightmares at bay. When I wake up it's to Haymitch belting out that dinner has been brought in and to get it while it's hot. The girl that loves me and yet somehow doesn't at the same time finally comes out of her sanctuary. She's dressed down as well, an emerald colored nightgown that doesn't quite reach her knees.
Her eyes are cold as they meet mine unfeelingly. And it's just as before. She's looking at me like I'm not the one she's really looking for. Her hands are nimble, and she has a plate of food and is nearly shutting herself back in by the time I run and squeeze my foot inside the room. She sets down the plate and glares at me before throwing her weight on the door. I can feel the muscle in my jaw pulse as I push my way in. She starts shouting at me to get out before I can gather my bearings.
When she realizes that I'm not going anywhere her eyes light back up. She reminds me of the episode I had on the train. Running at me, she thrusts her forearm into my throat so that I have to gasp for air. If I force her off of me I think I might hurt her in the process. She's all anger and rage, even the way she breathes sounds like she's growling. But as the room starts to spin I decide that I don't care if I hurt her.
So I shove her. Hard. Even when she's thrown off she still comes back to attack again, this time with her fists and knees striking me everywhere they can reach. My arms, chest, leg. Somehow my face remains unscathed, but after a particularly painful elbow to the ribs I refuse to let her do any more damage. Grabbing her wrists roughly, I press her into the door. My body is pinning hers, holding her there, this possessed, rabid creature she's become.
All I can think is that I must have gone insane, because all I want in that moment is to kiss her. She's only a hairsbreadth away. Her lips are parted, her hair wild and nose flaring as her lungs strive to get oxygen any way possible. I can see her teeth clench together.
After a moments hesitation, my body moves in of its own accord. My lips press awkwardly to hers, and the kiss lasts for a brief moment before she turns her head away. My mouth drags against her skin. I can feel her breath, harsh and ragged, in my ear.
I don't know how we got here.
"Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you? You're not even pretty." My eyes bulge. She's throwing my words back at me. She can't still hold me accountable for any of that, can she? But then I think back to those early days when I'd just woken. The unhindered, sarcastic remarks made at her expense. Every single time she tried to reach out, there I'd be. Blaming her for my family, burdening her with the deaths. Placing guilt when it was never really hers to bear. I don't think I've ever said anything truly kind to her. Not since I woke up.
Soaking in her biting remarks, I let her go in the process. But she's not done yet. When I meet her eyes again, she adds, "You're nothing to me." It comes out as a hiss, but I don't buy it. That kiss on stage was more than an act. There was feeling there. I could feel it in her sigh.
"And the kiss? Was that an act?" My voice is rising. I wonder, fleetingly, if Haymitch had been expecting this.
She stills at that, body rigid and tense as she assesses the situation. She looks like a wounded animal denied the route for flight. "Get out," she growls, opening the door. But I can't move. There's determination in her eyes as they begin to well up. All I want is to make her see the glimmer. To give her hope. I may not love her yet, but at least I don't hate her anymore. Shaking my head, I step closer to stroke my fingers against her cheek. Everything softens. I can see the confusion build on her face, distrust wavering in the presense of indecision. Finally she lets out a beath. Closing her eyes, she lets go and leans into my touch. For the briefest of moments I think she looks almost happy before her face contorts. When her eyes snap back open, all I can see is grief.
Just as I think I've rallied enough courage to speak, she backs away. "I need you to leave," she says in a sad, small voice, "Please go." Her voice breaks with a sob, and her hand goes to cover her mouth. Her eyes refuse to look up from the same spot on the ground next to her feet.
"Come on," Haymitch's voice says behind me, full of the authority it usually lacks, "Dinner's waiting." He swings the door open all the way so that I can step around him. After I've cleared out he whispers to her. It's a soothing, calming sort of whisper, but she still begins to weep openly. Her legs give out, and Haymitch manages to catch her before she can fall.
I can't take it anymore, the heart-wrenching sight of her clutching his shirt like it's a lifeline. Dinner tastes bland and I only eat enough to appease my stomach. Eventually Haymitch quietly eases his way out of her room. He looks tired. He sits and stares at me for a long while before speaking.
"I don't know if anyone ever told you this, but she attacked me after I told her we left you in the arena. It's a miracle I didn't lose an eye. Just launched herself at me with those nails of hers and dug out as much of my face as she could before they restrained her," he says it with a bit of a smile and a voice tinged with pride.
"I don't get it," I reply defeatedly. Haymitch chuckles.
"From what the doc tells me, it'll take time. I mean, imagine what she's been through. She never treated you quite right in the beginning, and you were always all rainbows and sunshine when it came to her. Then when she actually fell in love with you, you were captured. She still blames herself for that. When you got back you hated her so much, even after you got control. To top it all off, after her sister died she was told she'd be expected to make nice for the cameras and kiss the bastard who's walking around wearing her dead boyfriend's face," he glowers at me, "Shit ain't easy. I don't think any of us expect her to come out of here sane."
I feel drained. When I go to lie down on the couch, Haymitch points me to his room.
"Where will you sleep?" I ask. As if on cue, I hear a cry of pain coming from the closed bedroom. I stiffen; my eyes dart to Haymitch's searching for an answer.
"Don't expect to sleep much anyway," he says and leans back in his chair.
A/N: This is my first Hunger Games fic, so please review. Feedback is always, always nice. Did the fighting bit come out okay? I'm not used to writing those kinds of intense/intimate scenes yet. Also, I'm pretty certain I know where things are going, but some ideas would be very much appreciated! XOXO!