Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, or its lovely characters.
"The greatest remedy for anger is delay." - Thomas Paine
The thick turtlenecks I prefer in the winter, they refuse to encompass my entire torso this fifteen-degrees-below-freezing fall (Capitol boasts some very bipolar weather). It is my stomach quite ballooning that makes the width of the shirt too narrow, rather small. I continue to see a swollen belly button peeking out — and I am only six months along — even as I try on some of the larger ones; blue veins spider and strain all about it. The baby must be a mastodon.
Mother dropped off some old maternity clothes last week. I'd gotten rid of the nice ones from the last time around thinking the last time around would be the last time. Peeta had pleaded otherwise though, and I couldn't very well say no. I couldn't be mad.
Mad can wait for a different time and place, the delivery room for example. I can be mad when he is holding my hand, screaming as I scream (he did that the first time), even when he himself is physically unharmed. I can be mad as he asks the doctor why it's taking so long. Is something wrong? Is the baby okay? I can tell my husband of five years that he should try pushing an eight-pound baby out of his — I can be mad when he is there by my side, here with Rudy, me, our family. I can be mad and justified for being mad then. Mad can wait; a new heart can't.
I settle for an olive green sweatshirt with black leggings and laced-up boots to match. My father's old overcoat and the wool scarf Ms. Hawthorne made me will eventually top the outfit off, measures excessive in my opinion, but strictly enforced requirements all the same. Prim will have my head if I venture outside the house "bare." Goodness forbid I catch the sniffles.
Prim is in the living room, expectant, waiting for me. It is 7:10 according to the wall clock, the sun outside the window just barely yawning over a goldening horizon. Rudy is in her arms, straddled on a jutted hip and leaned heavily into the twenty-year old's shoulder, sucking quietly on a thumb. I watch him for a moment, observe as his soft blond hair falls the way Peeta's does, how my eyes stare from his round curved face. He is enamored by his thumb.
"Hat?" she asks, scrutinizing the messy brown hair I obviously made no effort to beautify this chilled and chilling morning. It falls in tangled locks over my shoulders, strands in my eyes.
"Don't need one."
"You could—"
"I know, I know. Catch a cold." We've been through this already.
"You could at least brush it out." I laugh. She smiles. I love my sister.
Two years ago, just a little after Rudy was born, Peeta began to grow easily tired. He would come home from working the bakery asleep on his feet, sometimes crashing on couch after only moments of sitting. I wasn't particularly worried though. We were both tired, trying to raise a baby and all. I let him rest an extra few hours when I could. One night, it was thirteen; he slept for thirteen hours.
Months passed and I was starting to feel like myself again. The weight I had gained during the pregnancy had all but vanished, and Rudy was old enough to be weaned from breastfeeding. One evening, the baby was sound asleep and for the first time in what seemed decades, Peeta and I were allowed to enjoy some alone time together. I suggested we call my mother or his parents over, maybe even Prim, and go for a walk, leave the baby for awhile; Capitol is famous for its scenic trails and byways. He agreed and thus we went, the Mellarks more than happy to come and coo at their precious grandson.
The freedom was exhilarating. It felt so good to be out of the house, away from the more monotonous moments of motherhood. No dirty diapers and colicky cries for the minute. Gushing relatives or overly concerned friends, either. How I missed the open air, the scent of pine after rain.
We walked on a clear cut path, one of the few within walking distance of our house, fingers entwined and content. The walkway was riddled with shimmering lanterns placed at what seemed to be impromptu intervals, in the grass, on makeshift stands, hanging from trees.
Trees.
I couldn't help but stare at the thick trees foresting either side of the path, allowed to be excited, for the first time since conception, at the prospect of going back one day, hopefully soon. It'd been awhile since I last hunted.
Peeta had an impenetrable look on his face; he seemed stoic. I leaned into his arm and slowed to his steady pace. The man continued to grimace.
"You know," I began, an eyebrow arching playfully as we continued to walk, "Doctor Aurelius said that the separation anxiety would be bad at first. It just looks depressing on you."
He laughed a laugh that never quite reached his body. It remained rigid, stiff; it was almost like he was trying to keeping himself together, taped up, straight. I observed these things plus a few. There was also the heavy rise and fall of his chest. He was making an effort to breathe.
"What's wrong?" I stopped Peeta with a light tug. He turned to face me, dark shadows staring where his eyes should be. Has he been sleeping well?
"Nothing. I'm fine." He tried a smile. I couldn't buy it.
"Peeta..." It was a warning.
"Just feeling a little tired, that's all."
You're always tired, Peeta. It was a thought only now striking. Peeta was never with enough sleep nowadays; those hollowing grooves accentuating his eyes hadn't just appeared overnight. In other priorities, Rudy at the foremost, Peeta's sleeping patterns at the last, I just didn't notice them. What a good person I am.
"But if you're not feeling well, then you should tell me. I'm your wife, Peeta. I deserve to know."
He took my free hand, kissed it, set it down.
"I'm fine, Katniss. Don't worry about me."
Two days later, Peeta was trying to lift a heavy flour bag when his chest started heaving in a way his father could only describe as terrifying. He collapsed to the ground, hand on his heart. Couldn't breathe.
He was rushed to South Capitol Regional Medical Center, the huge, fancy hospital on the other side of the city.
The other side of the city: where rich people lived and died.
Cassius Reid, attending in charge of Peeta's case, diagnosed him with congestive heart failure, a process sped up by the coronary artery disease no one knew the healthy-looking twenty-five year old had. They took him into surgery to relieve the fluid buildup in his lungs; a further look at the heart while the surgical team was there showed an organ weak and dying. Peeta would die without another heart.
Peeta is one on a long line of deserving candidates.
He's been in and out of the hospital ever since now, waiting for a chance at life. Yet, he's not at the top of the list to get that chance for as long as he still breathes on his own, the situation isn't critical. This autumn he's in, his immune system too weak to handle anything other than a sterile environment where the temperature is warm and regulated. Capitol weather is not warm and regulated.
He misses home. I miss him here.
"Tell Peeta I said hi," Prim says, now in a recliner rocking, flicking through channels on the widescreen embedded in the wall. Rudy dozes in her hold.
I grab my keys from the counter before walking over, kissing both their heads before I go.
"Alright."
A/N: A bit of warning. The next chapter will not focus around present events. Rather it'll take us into the past to Hayffie...and trust me. Hayffie has a very prominent role in this story. Thanks for reading and reviews are always appreciated! c: