Sunlight flits through the curtains, casting the room into a relief of vivid brightness and deep shadow. Katniss stands at the window, gazing out at the garden in front of her home. She watches the evening primrose buds blow in the wind and presses her palm against the cool glass. She thinks of her sister, Prim, who grew up in such a short amount of time, and whose life was taken just as quickly.
Breathing in slowly, determined to control the shaky wave of emotion that courses through her, Katniss counts to five, drops her hand from the window, and breathes out.
"That was a heavy sigh," Peeta's voice murmurs from behind her. She feels him standing there but doesn't turn. He lifts his hands and rests them on her shoulders, massages them briefly before letting them slide down her arms and into her hands. His fingers lace with hers, and he rests his head gently in the crook of her neck.
Katniss leans into him, lets herself relax against his warm, strong body. Her eyes don't leave the garden, but she tries to concentrate her thoughts on something other than her baby sister's gruesome death; something other than the countless other people who died, too, as a result of her own decisions. Instead she focuses on the warm breath that tickles the skin under her jaw, the gentle movement of Peeta's thumb against the back of her hand.
"I just took the cheese buns out of the oven," he says softly. "They're cooling on the counter. I thought you might want to know."
Katniss breathes in again, this time absorbing the fresh, familiar scent of the bread. Her nerves are instantly calmed and she untangles her fingers from Peeta's so she can turn to face him. They stand there for a moment, watching each other, until Peeta raises an eyebrow curiously. She holds his gaze for another moment, resists the urge to simply stand there and stare at him—because if she was honest, that's what she would spend all of her time doing—then rests her head on his chest, her arms snaking around his waist. His own arms instantly wrap around her, giving her that safe, protected feeling that she always got when she was with him. Her eyes flutter shut and she feels the stinging that warns of tears threatening to fall.
"She was just a baby," her voice cracks, and she stops. She doesn't know what else to say.
Barely a year has passed since the end of the war. The pain of the loss is incredibly fresh, and yet Katniss feels like she should be finished crying over it—like she should be past the point of tears, and into the recovery phase. But the nightmares make it impossible. The flowers for which Prim was named, planted innocently in the garden by Peeta, are a daily reminder. The frequent calls from her mother—often filled with mindless accounts of their day-to-day lives—do nothing to numb the pain that accompanies the memory of her little sister.
Peeta's arms tighten gently, reminding her that she is not alone. He strokes her hair, which for once hangs loose from its usual braid. As she shudders lightly from the effort of retaining her sobs, she remembers that Peeta lost most of his family to the war, too. Not only that, but he lost his own mind. And here he is, comforting her instead of the other way around.
Oddly enough, the thought brings her a guilty sort of comfort. Knowing that she doesn't have to suffer alone.
"A lot of people died, Katniss," Peeta reminds her softly, running a hand through her hair. He looks out the window now, at the flowers that he so carefully planted for her, and wonders whether it was a good idea to put such an obvious reminder of their losses so close to home. "But... think of the future generations of kids that won't have to deal with what we did. Who won't have to suffer like we did." He pauses, lets his words sink in. She tilts her head up, catches his eye again, and he finishes: "they didn't die in vain. Prim didn't die in vain."
His words ease her thoughts; an image comes to mind of a little boy, not yet a year old, with soft green eyes and bronze coloured hair. He grips a little plastic trident as he splashes in the shallows of the ocean, the only place where he is truly happy. And Katniss realizes the truth behind what Peeta is saying. Yes, she lost her sister—the hole in her chest would always be there to remind her of that—and Peeta lost family members, too. The war took hundreds of lives.
But in the end, Panem is better off than it had been. There's no denying it.
He offers a small smile as he wipes the few tears she finally shed from her cheek. His touch is gentle and reassuring. Katniss is reminded of how incredibly lucky she is to have him with her despite the way the Capitol tried to take him away.
"And anyway," he seems to have been reading her thoughts, "we still have each other. We're survivors, you and me. The odds were never in our favour, but somehow we still made it. We can't live forever wishing things were different, Katniss. We just have to make the most of what we have."
His eyes never leave hers once, and she's almost embarrassed by her temporary break down. Peeta is always so good at controlling his emotions. She wishes she could be.
She smiles weakly, forces the negative thoughts from her mind and reminds herself that he's right. Of course he's right. He always is.
"How long until the buns are cool enough to eat?" she decides to change the subject, inhaling the warm scent of the bread.
Peeta's face shifts into a smile and he takes a small step towards her, closing the distance between them. "They're probably still really hot." He tilts his head slightly to the side and presses his lips against hers, grinning as she melts against him. She wraps her arms around his waist and holds onto him tightly—this time, she refuses to let him go.