A/N: I needed a bit of a creative break from my multi-chapter fic so I wanted to expand one of my favourite parts of Catching Fire. I wish it had been longer so we could see this shift in their relationship because it my mind, this was a turning point for them that deserved exploration.
Disclaimer: I'm not a botanist, just someone that really loves plants.
My mother examines my heel again the day after I landed on it jumping over the fence and determines that I need bedrest for at least a week, probably longer. I don't mind given how exhausted and sore I feel but I'm itching to do something and I yearn for the open woods with all its freedom and peace. Here, I can't avoid the thoughts that seem to drown me: how I've failed to calm the districts and convince him of my love for Peeta. I don't know what happens next but I know it can't be good.
I hear a knock. "Yes?" I snap at the door. I don't need any more attention from my mother, I just want her to leave me be. But instead Peeta walks in tentatively. "Sorry, I thought you were my mom."
"It's okay, I just wanted to see how you were doing." He stands at the end of the bed, which feels so far away. I motion to the chair beside the bed and he sits.
"I'm okay. Bored out of my mind but okay." He nods in understanding.
"I feel that way a lot, too. I mean, I'm not bedridden or anything but since my mother hasn't been letting me work at the bakery, I don't have a lot to do." He smiles weakly but I know it bothers it. "I imagine soon my house will be overrun with more paintings than I know what to do with. Sometimes I bake but I don't really have anyone to bake for. Speaking of which, I did bake some more cheese buns for you today." He reaches into his bag and hands me one, which I take greedily. It's warm in my hand as I take a bite.
"I think I've eaten more cheese buns than anyone ever should," I laugh.
Peeta smiles but then his brows crease in worry. "Do you want me to make you something else? I just always make the cheese buns because I know you like them."
"Oh no, I could eat them forever. Definitely don't stop making them." He still looks concerned. "I'm never going to protest any food you give me but I will definitely protest if you stop bringing these." I stuff the rest of it in my mouth and his lips form a smile. "What have you been painting?"
He shrugs. "Nothing interesting. Sometimes the plants in my house, other times I paint what I imagine my garden will look like when it's spring. Green and lush. Then other times I paint what I showed you on the train." I nod. The Games. Forever haunting both of our dreams. He glances over at the leather book on my side table. "What's that?" I pick it up and turn it over in my hands
"It's a plant book that has been passed down in my family." I open the clasp and turn to a random page. There is an ink drawing alongside a list of details: the name, its medicinal uses, a description. I turn it to show it to him. "I've wanted to add to it for a while but I'm a lousy artist." Peeta smiles at that; he's brilliant so I imagine to his eye, my art would look like a child's. Then an idea sparks. "Do you want to help me with it? You can draw and I'll write." He nods and his eyes light up in a way that cause my stomach to flutter.
1. Chicory
This process seems to require a lot of trial and error. Peeta sit in the chair beside the bed and draws in his own sketchbook while I give him a basic set of description. He proves to be much more patient than I am. I make him draw the flower of the plant at least 10 times before I'm satisfied with the size and shape of the pedals. After I determine he's got it all right, I give him the plant book and tell him to be gentle with it, though I'm already certain he will be without the instruction.
He lightly glides his pencil across the paper and begins to make the beginnings of a stem. "What is this one called again?"
"Chicory." I think back to my first time digging around the blue flower, clumped along the edges of a stretch of grass in the woods. "It turns out that their roots, when baked and ground, are a great substitute for coffee." I shrug. "At least that's what my mom tells me." I watch him mimic the shape of the roots in the sketch. He expertly manipulates the instrument in his strong hands. If I didn't know him, I don't think I'd peg him as a delicate painter. "How come you were the ones that decorated the cakes?"
Peeta doesn't look up from the page where he stares intently. "No one else wanted to do it. I was the youngest so it became my job. But I actually liked it." He holds out the drawing for me to see. I nod my approval. He smiles at me and then turns back to the paper. "There is a lot of peace that comes from decorating, and painting too. There is so much time to think and just work in quiet. Working on the cakes was an especially nice break from the chaos of the rest of the shop."
I can't help but imagine him working in a corner of the bakery, staring thoughtfully at a half decorated mountain of cake with streaks of frosting on his face. "What?" he asks. I realize I am smiling and shake it off, telling him it's nothing.
2. Huckleberry
The huckleberry was actually already in this book courtesy of my father but sometime during my early searches for edible plants in the woods following his death, it tore out and was lost, along with invaluable information about the tasty berry. Peeta has no problem copying down the berry and gets the plant right after only a few sketches. I watch him shading the blue of the berry with a thin layer of paint and my mouth waters thinking of popping one in my mouth. I long for the warm weather that will bring them growing in little clumps out in the woods.
Peeta blends the colors with his fingers and I notice that the colour of his eyes match that of the berry. He looks up at me and catches me looking at him. He doesn't call me on it when I quickly avert my gaze. "Is there a story behind this one?" I think hard; is there? Then I remember.
"A lot of them grow by the lake. My father taught me to swim there in the summer when I was around seven and afterwards we ate huckleberries until our tongues were purple." The memory feels warm and fresh, as if it weren't so distant. My father has been gone for six years, even if the berries still grow without him. I think of one specific day when the sun was bright and the water a shimmering blue. "There was this one time when I cut my foot on a rock in the lake. While he wrapped it up, he had me eat tons of huckleberries. 'They help prevent infection,' he said. Then he carried me home on his back." I laugh at the memory, remembering my innocence and the way my father's cheeks dimpled when he smiled at me.
I look over at Peeta and he's staring at me with curiosity and I look away when I realize I haven't ever talked to him about my father before. He's always been a private part of me and I always feared that sharing pieces of him would make him feel even further away but I realize it doesn't. In a way, it feels like he's closer now that someone can share it with me. I don't realize I'm crying until Peeta sits on the bed and puts his hand on my cheek, wiping a tear away with his thumb. I smile weakly at him and wait for him to take the hand away but he doesn't. We stay like that until the intimacy becomes too much and I turn away shyly.
"I'm going to warm up some cheese buns, I'll be right back." He leaves me alone to collect myself and I just collapse back on my pillow and let the memory settle in my chest. I wonder how Peeta always seems to know what I need when I don't know myself.
3. Chanterelle
I don't know at what point it became part of the routine for Peeta to sit on the end of my bed while he sketches but it came seamlessly, as if he had always lounged there. Even with him here, though, I long to be outside. My body isn't used to this sort of sedentary lifestyle and I don't like it at all. For this plant, or I guess fungus actually, I want to be showing him rather than explaining.
"How come you're so specific about these gills? What's what they're called, right?" Peeta has no idea what I'm talking about half the time and I feel like I'm teaching him like I might a child. He doesn't seem to mind or be embarrassed by it, though.
"Well, there are just a ton of mushrooms that look exactly like this one and those aren't are friendly to the stomach." I cringe remembering an instance when I made that mistake and the horrible cramps that followed. "You definitely want to make sure that it's the right one before you eat it. But there are plenty of chanterelle in the woods since they grow next to trees." He nods, super intrigued and continues sketching ribbed lines into the drawing. I like passing the knowledge along, even though he'll never really need it.
He pauses and looks out the window with a stare that captures the same longing that has been eating me whole for the last week. Is he bored of this? "What does it feel like?"
"The mushroom? They're soft, I guess."
He shakes his head. "No, I mean being in the woods." OH.
I have no idea how to answer this. I look down at my hands, which are no longer callused and hardened, and they don't feel like my own. They are too soft, too pink. The rest of me is this way, too. I wonder when exactly I lost ownership of my own body and it doesn't take long to recall the early minutes in the Capitol, stripped of my clothes and five layers of hair and skin. It's not Cinna's or the prep team's fault but the boxes of wedding dresses downstairs remind me that I am never free.
I must be silent for a while because Peeta begins to fumble, muttering apologies in the sensitive way that I've come to find endearing. "No, it's okay." I attempt reassurance before a memory stirs something in me. "Remember the nights on the train?" He nods and tentatively smiles at me. He fears my rejection and I ache a little knowing he's probably expecting negativity; I've given him nothing else to expect. "Being in the woods is kind of like how I felt when you held me those nights." I can't meet his eyes. "Safe, comfortable, warm. It doesn't feel scary out there, full of uncertainly and hate… I miss it."
Neither of us speaks for a while. Peeta just sketches and I pull at the skin of my fingernails until they are sore and raw but I don't want them to be pristine; I like knowing that I can wear my body down, that it isn't always perfect, even if my prep team forces it back to perfection before the wedding. Thinking of the wedding makes my throat dry. Nothing will ever be what it once was.
I don't notice Peeta has gotten up until he sits next to me. I look up at him and smile weakly. He asks me if the sketch is good and I just nod. I desperately want him to hold me, to give me that warmth, that feeling of security, but I can't let him. He is the nourishing mushroom and I'm the impostor that poisons you instead.
4. Wood Sorrel
I'm struggling to describe the shapes of these leaves in a way that helps Peeta understand. He's made many attempts at the leaves but I'm not satisfied by them. I wish I had the plants in front of me but I obviously don't have that luxury. "It's like three hearts that meet at the point but are creased in the middle and they fold up depending on the time of day." He just looks at me.
"Are you sure you're not making this up?"
"Why would I be making that up?" I snap at him. I cross my arms and frown at him. I want him to get upset too but he just struggles to hold in a laugh. "What? Dammit Peeta!" That just makes it worse and I let out a grunt in frustration.
"I think we need to get you out of this bed. You're getting cranky," he teases. My frown deepens but I have a feeling he's right. I'm sick of being stuck up here. He climbs off the bed and holds out his arms to me.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to carry you. Come on, it's not a big deal." After I give him permission, he puts an arm under my knees and the other around my waist. I wrap my arms around his neck for support and my head rests against his chest. He smells like flour. He lifts me with ease and carries me down the stairs. My mother greets us from where she is cooking in the kitchen, as if this is a normal occurrence. He places me on a couch in the adjacent room next to a window and runs to the kitchen to fetch me some of his latest baked goods.
I sign in relief, looking outside at the snow that seems to finally be melting as the sun starts to peek through thinning grey clouds. I hear Peeta and my mom in the kitchen and suddenly feel lonely without his presence. I tentatively place my foot on the floor and wince at the pressure before bringing it back onto the couch.
Peeta rounds the corner with a plate of some buttery pastries that I'm sure will taste amazing. After I take a bite, I'm sure I'm going to melt. "You like it better down here?" I nod, my mouth full. He laughs at me and I smile reflexively. "Your mom helped me figure out the wood sorrel. It turns out your description was pretty spot on."
"Ha, see? It was you the whole time." He pouts at me and I throw one of the pastries at his face. It hits him so comically, I can't help the bellow of a laugh that comes out. In that moment, I forget that it's me and Peeta, the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve, forced into public displays of affection, and forever tied together by the reins of the Capitol. Instead, we feel like friends, capable of exchanging moments of silliness alongside intimacy and comfort.
5. Nerve Root
It's now become a routine that by the afternoon, Peeta carries me down the stairs. My body comes to fit comfortably against his and I feel safest in his arms, where I know I'm protected from all. It's not entirely true; even Peeta can't save me from the horrors of my mind and the hell that is my reality but he would if he could. I try to block out the fact that he loves me in a way that I would never be able to reciprocate.
My family adores him, which makes it equally better and worse. Peeta bakes and cooks with my mother while I watch the news in the living room. I hear their easy conversation and imagine my mother wondering how I possibly could not love this sweet boy. He is kind to Prim and they have a shared sense of humor that I wish I could appreciate. I try to ignore it and focus on the stories the Capitol spits on the television.
The news is not really all that interesting but I'm curious about the video of District Thirteen and want to see if what Bonnie said was true. They can't be using the same recording after all this time, right? Eventually, a story about the Dark Days brings a report from the ruins of Thirteen and a Mockingjay flashes across the screen and I know it's true. I don't know what this means but I'm aware of how the world is growing more and more complicated. The moment I've seen the footage, I feel light headed and it doesn't take Peeta more than a few minutes to notice and encourage me to go to bed. He scoops me up and even his arms don't feel safe right now.
Even after he puts me down on the bed, he stares at me in concern. I can't stop shaking. He runs off to get me water and I grab the leather book on my side table and open it to the page from today. I think my dad called the nerve root another name, like a slipper or something, but my mom knew the practical name that encompassed what this plant actually did: sedate, calm the body. The irony slaps me in the face that I feel I need it for relief just a few hours after writing these details down. The world swirls on around me and I feel even more disaster surrounding me, my family, Peeta. What did I do? All I wanted was to come home to Prim, to keep Peeta alive. I didn't want this.
Peeta returns and I force the water down my throat. He goes to leave and I cry out, "Please, don't go. Please." He doesn't hesitate when he gets into the bed and encompasses me in his arms. He doesn't ask questions, he just holds me as I fall asleep. But even his arms can't protect me from the screaming from districts falling into chaos in my nightmares.
6. Foxglove
My mother encourages me to walk today and I jump at the chance to be mobile again. My legs are stiff and itch to move. She holds my arm in case I need it but I walk across the room and she gives me a nod of approval. She tells me that I should wait another day before going outside deems the injury healed. It takes all of my will power to not run down the stairs, to not run outside and feel the chill dirt on my feet. Snow is melting and the grass is fighting to get access to the warm sun.
Peeta comes when I'm walking around the room, stretching my legs, and smiles wide at me. "Wow, you're looking so much better!" I'm beaming. "I brought you some more cheese buns."
"Thanks!" I devour three before I notice Peeta looks a little sad. He must realize that I can't be contained inside anymore, that this is over. I realize that I feel sad too. But it's not finished quite yet. "You want to do one more?" He smiles.
The foxglove is beautiful. It's a flower that looks like it's covered in little pastel bells. They grow in fields and look like decorative fences when they stand beside one another. Despite looking pretty, they are extremely poisonous. My mother treated a boy many years ago that came across the plant near the fence and developed a fatal case of pneumonia after inhaling the spores. I've never had any desire to go near one but I want to touch the petals as Peeta paints the tiny details. They are so soft, delicate.
"How can something so pretty be so dangerous?" He muses.
I shrug. "Everything seems dangerous nowadays. Pretty or not." He scrunches his eyebrows together.
"I'd like to think there is more good in the world than there is bad. Good exists in a lot of things and people," he offers. "Like you."
"Me? I make everything worse! Have you noticed the state of Panem?" I just stare at him. He must know that I've put him in danger, that following me is like quickest way to destroy any hope for safety. Loving me was the worst thing that could have ever happened to him.
"I don't think you realize how good you are." I scoff and he shakes his head and closes the book. "I'm finished. Would you like to go downstairs?" I nod and we leave the room. He holds my hand down the stairs, claiming that he's worried about my balance but I know better. I also mourn for his arms carrying me, for the comfort and security that is now certain to shatter any day now.
7. Katniss
I haven't seen Peeta for a few days and I'm feeling so incredibly lonely. I don't dare go into the woods despite that being one of the few places I feel like myself. Sometimes I take walks outside but I feel isolated, the people of Twelve afraid of me and the peacekeepers full of hate. I spend most of my time downstairs, waiting for Prim to get home while making small talk with my mother. It's almost worse now that I have no physical restraint and only fear holding me back. The box of wedding dresses sits in the hallway and taunts me when I walk by. I think the only part I'm going to like about being married is that I know he'll always be there. Maybe I can take him in the woods when everything calms down and he can sketch and paint from the plants themselves. But then I remember that happiness can't come for either of us. Not if Snow can help it.
There's a loud knock at the door. My mother answers it and I can't see it who it is from where I'm sitting on the couch. But she cheerfully greets them and I perk up when I hear his voice. It's not long after that he comes to the living room, a basket in hand and a sweet smile on his face. "Hey," Peeta says.
"Hey." I try to hide my delight that he's come back to visit. "What have you been doing these last few days?"
He looks down at the basket, which has a cloth napkin covering its contents, and then back at me. "Actually I was making you something." He hands me the basket and I look up at him curiously.
"More cheese buns, I hope?"
He laughs. "I know better than to come over without cheese buns."
I lift the napkin and take a bite out of one, still warm. I groan in a show of appreciation. I look back down and see that there is something else in the basket. A rolled up piece of paper? No, fabric. I take it out and glance at him. He's just watching patiently. I carefully unroll it. It takes a moment to register that the flower painted on the canvas is a katniss flower. It's beautiful, with delicate cream petals and colors blending seamlessly so that it appears to be almost real. I don't know what to say.
"I wanted to make something that was just for you. So you know how much you mean to me," he says.
"I know," I say, at almost a whisper. I hold the flower close to me. "You mean a lot to me, too." A chill runs through my body as the words escape and his smile registers deep inside me. I'm starting to realize that he's come to mean more to me than I thought was possible. And that scares the hell out of me.