Nightmares
OK, bear with me for a moment here. This chapter is taking moments that are roughly 10 pages (and a few days) apart in the books, but they have to do with the same thing, so I wanted to include them in one. But this means that the next two chapters actually happen before the last half of this one. Slightly confusing, I know.
Thanks everyone for supporting this story. It's my favorite thing I've written, and a story I think deserves to be told, and I'm glad you all like how I tell it :) Please keep reading and reviewing, and enjoy!
I wake up with a start, breathing heavily. I lay flat on my back, my fists clenched so tightly I have to make an effort to unclench them. With my eyes closed I try to separate reality from dreams, sorting through the mess of visions and memories. Katniss…running, screaming, falling. Away from me, out of my reach. Blood, sweat, terror.
A dream.
A nightmare.
I sigh heavily as my surroundings take shape again and I remember where I am. On a train, on the Victory Tour, with Katniss sleeping safely in a compartment just a few doors down from my own. Still…I feel uneasy. I wrestle myself out of the covers and lightly step out my door.
In the darkness of the hallway I make my way towards Katniss' door, simply needed to be close to her. To hear her breathing, to know that she is okay. Halfway down the corridor I can dimly make out the numbers on the door I recognize to be Katniss'. I rest my hand and forehead on her door for a moment, realizing this is the closest I will get to her. I hear her moving restlessly within, and know I should be satisfied and return to my own bed. Yet I can't bring myself to leave just yet, so I simply pace outside her room, as if on guard against an invisible foe.
For several minutes I carry on like this, until a noise from within stops me. A gentle whimper, which slowly morphs into a heart-wrenching cry. Without pausing to think I'm through the door and gathering Katniss into my arms. Her dark hair is plastered to her face with sweat and she writhes in my arms, still trapped in her nightmare.
"Katniss. Katniss, love, it's okay. I'm here," I sooth, words meshed with gentle kisses on her forehead. These intimate words which by the light and clarity of day I would not dare to say. "Katniss, honey, I'm here. You're safe." Her gray eyes finally open and lock on mine. For a moment I expect her to scream again and demand that I leave. Instead, she buries her face in my chest, where her tears and sweat mingle and dampen my shirt. I hold her, as her shoulders shake. My hand traces the curve of her neck and my mouth murmurs calming words. I tell her stories, always with happy endings. I whisper memories from before the Games, before our worlds were turned upside down, until I hear her breathing calm and see her eyes closed once again by sleep.
I bend down and kiss her on the forehead, intending to leave, but the moment I untangle myself from her she begins whimpering again. I pause for a moment. I have never seen Katniss quite so vulnerable as this, and it wrenches my heart more than ever. I can't protect her from her own nightmares, but at least I can be here for her when she wakes up. I lay down softly beside her, reaching my hand down to find hers and clasp it tightly in mine. Our faces are inches from each other on her pillow, and I simply watch her until at last sleep takes me.
The soft sound of her breath pervades even into my dreams, and for once I do not have a single nightmare.
Each night I tell myself that I won't return, that it is improper and that I am only confusing myself and Katniss more than necessary. Yet each night I find my feet tracing the familiar path to Katniss' room, find my hands opening the door, and find my arms reaching out to comfort her. I can't bear the thought that she is hurting, that she is frightened, and that I am not there for her. So each night I go to her and keep the nightmares away. Not only hers, but my own.
I know people talk. I know they think it's wrong. But they haven't been through what we have. They can't understand it, because they don't see it every night. We've been forced to face terrors that most people can't begin to imagine, and now every night we relive them. Every night I see her, I see losing her forever, and the only remedy is to wake up with her in my arms.
I tell her this one day, hardly thinking of how uncomfortable it might make her feel. It is past noon, the sunlight gently creeping in through the curtains, when she finally awakens. Her head rests against my arm—which had been asleep for a very long time, though I don't dare move it—and she stirs gently.
"No nightmares," I say softly as she turns to face me.
"What?" she asks groggily.
"You didn't have any nightmares last night." She looks contemplative as I say this, as if she hadn't really realized it herself.
"I had a dream, though," she replies quietly. "I was following a mockingjay though the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice." I see tears glisten in her eyes, though none fall and her voice remains steady.
"Where did she take you?" I ask, gently brushing a lock of hair from her forehead, aching to preserve this tender moment.
"I don't know. We never arrived." Her voice drifts off, "But I felt happy."
"Well, you slept like you were happy." And it's true. For once there were no screams, no tears, no need for me to hold her close.
She sits up, and my arm feels cold where her head has left it. "Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?"
I think about this for a moment, concentrating on the way a strand of her hair curls ever so slightly over her left eyebrow. "I don't know," I answer. "I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror." It's an interesting thought, actually. Katniss' fears make her fight, while mine makes me freeze.
"You should wake me," she says, but I shake my head.
"It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," I explain casually. "I'm okay once I realize you're here." I smile down at her, but she is uncomfortably avoiding my gaze. "Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again," I add, though this only makes her look more uncomfortable.
The truth is, I'm petrified about returning home. I'm afraid of the nightmares, yes, but I'm more afraid that I am going to lose whatever ground I have gained here. Any progress we have made at rebuilding some semblance of a real relationship could easily be erased if we slip back into the easy routine of cold acquaintances that was the norm after the Games. And I know I can't bear having her drift away again.
Holding her in my arms has been the only thing that makes any sense to me these past few weeks. In this unfamiliar world that has become our reality I feel often adrift in a sea of things I don't understand, where one wrong move can cause a devastating tidal wave of repercussions. And one wrong word to Katniss can change everything.
It's because of this that I have cherished these nighttime terrors where her guard is down. Where I don't have to fear that any word I say can be misconstrued by the Capitol. I can simply hold Katniss, protect her the best way I know how. I can tell her that everything will be okay, and in those moments between sleeping and waking, she believes me.
The problem is I no longer believe myself.
