AN: Mockingjay dragged my heart across a cheese grater, so I decided to WRITE THEM A HAPPY ENDING. TRY AND TELL ME IT'S NOT CANON. *cough* I'm fine, I'm fine. Anyway, this is a slow burn deviation wherein the events of Mockingjay do not transpire. I'm trying to coax myself back into writing for pleasure, and thus far it has proven about as surmountable as Mt. Everest, but hopefully the pull of Everlark will help. I do hope it provides a pleasant reprieve from reality.
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"And so I begin; and I take it as a good omen that I commence this testament of my longing in these days that by a year's length follow those when, with kindred longing, I walked toward something vague and uncertain and didn't know yet that you are the fulfillment for which I was preparing myself in songs of intense listening."
- Rilke, A Love Story in Letters
Today annoyed him, in the same manner that yesterday had aggravated him and tomorrow would likely find him several hours closer to a breakdown. For all the psychological torture it imparted, the Victory Tour had at least brought him and Katniss closer together for a series of transitory moments wherein he could entertain the delusion that the remainder of his existence would amount to more than one overwhelming hobble through the murky swamp of solitude.
He slammed a clod of hapless dough against the counter, a strong exhalation of flour spurting into the air. The unrelated knock ricocheting from his door down the hall prompted a full-body jolt before he actually froze in place with one hand suspended in the air and the other immersed in dough, long-embedded reflexes associating the sound with his mother's dissemination of a punishment, because how dare he waste flour, how dare he execute any movements deviating from the bare minimum to produce the desired product, how dare he not be female, how dare he exist…
After a few moments of quivering immobility, Peeta reclaimed his appendages and considered several possibilities as to the identity of the person knocking as he ground his palms against his pale blue apron and closed in on the door. Haymitch in a rare swath of sobriety, to impart some directive which Peeta would have zero interest in fulfilling. His father, having magically sprouted a pair, to inform him that he had finally decided to move in with Peeta in Victor's Village. Gale, to clock him soundly for having the audacity to harbor sentiments for his longtime hunting partner.
The absolute last person he would have expected, whom he had not even considered as a possibility, awaited Peeta as he swing the door inward.
"Hi," she peered up at him with wide eyes, her countenance calling to mind a cornered cat he had once watched his brother try to capture in a friend's basement, its movements frantic and frenzied and determined not to relinquish its freedom.
"Hi," he squeaked, completely unable to formulate anything resembling a coherent response.
"So, um..." Her eyes flickered from him, over his shoulder, to the doorframe, to the floor, to her hands, the fingernails of which she promptly proceeded to start picking. "I just..." A hand flew up to twirl some nonexistent stray hairs behind her right ear. "You're here alone, and…"
Oh. Pity. Wonderful, just wonderful. "I'm fine, Katniss. You don't owe me anything anymore."
She startled, seeming confused, before plunging forward. "No! No, I just... It was more..." She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, then pried them open with seeming Herculean effort. "Doyouwanttohangout?"
He stared blankly for a moment, parsing apart the words. "Hang… You want to hang out?"
"Only if you do," she hurriedly amended. "You don't have to. I m-"
"I'd love to," he interjected, and before he could issue another word a small, dark mass slammed against his chest, slight arms curling around his thick barrel. He raised his arms reflexively to return the spontaneous hug.
"I missed you." He barely heard the whisper as her words emerged mashed against his shirt.
"Me too," he replied, dropping his head to rest his lips on her hair. It seemed as though the universe had encased him in safety and dappled him in contentment while bathing him in brilliant light. If only his arms had the same effect on her.
After a few moments of her clutching Peeta as though she considered him something precious as opposed to irritating and disposable, he lifted his chin and she pulled back to look up at him. For a moment they just shared space before she must have sensed a pressure to kiss in such proximity and pulled back in a fluster of nerves, the air seeming to echo her sentiments, quivering like an explosion of beating feathers. He decided she couldn't possibly be more adorable.
"I hunt in the mornings, but that's about it." She shrugged.
"Want to come by after you're done hunting tomorrow?" Her face seemed to fall a bit. She couldn't possibly miss him so desperately that the delay of a few hours would seem the eternity it would for him? Wouldn't that kind of response suggest a romantic interest in the other person, the kind of impatient drive for another's company typically indicative of something more fervent than friendship?
"I was just starting a batch of cookies," he quickly amended, trying not to read too much into the way her eyes brightened, almost with something resembling hope. Likely a trick of the light. "I know baking's not really your thing, but you're welcome to join me? I'll teach you how to frost."
Her traditional scowl melted into a rare, small smile, and she nodded. He stepped back and exerted every effort to squelch the fluster of nerves that pinged around his stomach as she passed, even the displaced air seeming brighter for having encountered her.