A/N This chapter's so late and I cannot express in words how truly sorry I feel, but nevertheless, I apologize. I had to visit some relatives who live a thousand miles from where I do for a few days, and I was so exhausted that I didn't have time to finish this, but I did try bit by bit. But now I'm back. I know, I know, this chapter's a bit short for my (and maybe your?) taste. But I can assure you I've already started on the next chapter. You can expect it in a few days. Anyways, an advanced Happy Mothers' Day to all! :D
Enjoy. :)
4
The shrill ring of the telephone startles me from my thoughts. I nearly fall off the chair, but Greasy Sae catches me in time. Normally, I'd ignore the telephone, unplug its cable from the socket if ever the caller's persistent, and resume my activities. But this morning, I received a letter from my mother telling me she'd call tonight. She said she had tried to call the whole week but found the operator telling her the number she's trying to reach is out of service instead. I ran and held the phone to my ear, but no dial tone could be heard. After a few minutes of observation, I discovered the cause—an unplugged cable.
Ever since I read her letter—which Sae forced me to do, because the moment I recognized her handwriting I gasped and dropped it as if it could potentially burn me—I've been fidgeting nonstop. Numerous times have I found myself biting my nails out of anxiety. I tried to end the strange habit, but gave up on the seventh occasion. Apprehension replaced hunger, and I stubbornly refused to eat anything for fear of throwing it up. Eventually, I became exhausted of Sae's coaxing and allowed her to spoon-feed me.
The phone continues to ring, and I stare at it for what seems like an eternity before Sae pushes me in its direction. I take my time trying to calm myself, taking deep breaths, knowing my mother wouldn't give up so easily now that she's certain my telephone isn't broken after all. And finally with shaking hands, I pick up the phone.
"H-Hello?"
"Katniss?" replies my mother. She sounds concerned, if that's even possible.
"Yes, it's me. I got your letter this morning."
"How are you? How's Peeta?"
"I'm doing great. How's District Four?" I ask, desperate to change the topic. I haven't seen Peeta since the day we colored. He never did show up the next day. Or the day after that. And I loathed him, for getting my hopes up, for lying to my face, for implying that we could be friends.
"It's better." she says quietly, and I'm certain what the comparison's against. I know she'll never be able to set foot in this Twelve again, let alone my house. And I know it's because this place holds memories too painful to remember. "The people have been very welcoming. I think it's because healers are very rare, even with all the trainees…" she trails off, and I realize where her thoughts have led her.
"I miss her." I say, my voice cracking.
"Me too." she says, choking back a sob. "She would've been a great doctor."
We spend the next hour crying, and however unintelligibly it seemed, I felt a deep connection to her that was never present before. Similarly to how I clung to Peeta, because he was the only one who could ever understand the outcome of facing the horrors we have, I hold on to her because only she could feel the pain that I do, after losing someone as innocent and as beloved as Prim.
We weep for our losses—for her, for my father—andwe both know if only there were still here, they'd be mighty proud of us. I can only wish that I could hear them say it would besaddening to think so, but they were both better people than I and frankly, if they had survived instead of me, it would've been for the better. I have far too much arrogance and a hell of a lot of pride. And everyone who has lasted through the war would agree with me saying we've had enough of that for a lifetime.
I hang up the phone, after I bid her farewell and promise to keep in touch. Thankfully, she dropped Peeta. I miss him too, I admit, but elaborating further on his condition wouldn't help me forget him. As if I ever could.
Grabbing my sweater, I get out of the house and take in lungfuls of fresh air. It's liberatingly sweet, reminding me of Prim. She's in a better place now, I think. Tears don't spill anymore just whilethinking about her, maybe partly because I have none left, but for once, I feel hopeful. I have welcomed grief for far too long. I'm hopeful recovery will soon take its place.
A light turns on in his house. I decide to check up on him just to ease my worry and slowly tread the path that leads to the house. I owe him for things I could never, even in a thousand lifetimes, make up for. If he's avoiding me, I'll leave it at that; if not, I'll have to try and help him and act as if I'm willing.
I knock on his door once. "Peeta?" I say. It's shivering out here, and I'm grateful I had the presence of mind to bring a sweater, though it's the thin kind. Twice. Still no answer. Thrice. "Peeta?" I repeat. Impatience is replaced by concern, and soon after, worry. I bang on his door with my fist continuously. "Peeta, answer the door!" I shout. "Peeta!"
I hear a resounding crash, quickly followed by a curse. The door roughly opens and smashes into the adjacent wall. He's only in jeans, with disheveled hair and a bleeding foot. I had continued to knock, and now he holds my wrist firmly to stop it from doing so, but from the look on his face he's equally startled as I am.
"What are you doing here?" he says quietly, not quite matching the brusqueness of his actions.
I squirm from his tight grip, but he doesn't release me. "Visiting a friend."
He cocks his head in Haymitch's direction, who until now I hadn't noticed was seated on his porch. "Wrong house." says Peeta, while Haymitch salutes us with his flask of liquor when he notices me eyeing him.
I roll my eyes, and let myself in. For a second, I fear that he'll push me out of the house and slam the door in my face but when I turn around, he's leaning on the already-closed door with his arms crossed,eyeing me warily.
"What?" I snap.
"I'm your friend." he says slowly, tasting the words. He sighs, while scratching the back of his head. "I hate to break it to you, but you can't force yourself to be someone's friend."
"Oh, I'm sorry." I scoff. "I'm obviously unworthy of your friendship. Should I make an appointment with your secretary?"
"I meant you don't have to be my friend just because you're being coerced to." he grimaces. "The Katniss I knew wouldn't let anyone tell her what to do." he adds, shaking his head.
"Who said I was being coerced?" I say, adding the last word with mock enthusiasm. "This was my own decision." I say stubbornly, stomping my foot in frustration.
He grins at me. "There's my Katniss."
I watch his expression for any signs of his flashbacks, but his grin remains unfaltering. He called me his Katniss. His Katniss. My shock must have registered on my face because he unfolds his arms and shoves his hands in his pockets uneasily.
He strides towards me and touches the end of my braid. "My Katniss." he whispers.
His face is mere inches from mine, and I can strongly smell his scent; cinnamon and dill. I turn away from him and stare at my feet, fearing I'll do something irrationally impulsive.
"Your foot." I gasp, remembering his injury. The blood has soaked through the hem of his jeans. I crouch down to inspect the damage, grateful for an excuse to avoid foolish behavior.
"It's alright, Katniss." he sighs. I prod his toes, and judging by the sharp intake of breath he takes, it isn't.
Straightening up, I offer him my hand. "Let's fix you up, shall we?" I say. He takes it, though hesitantly, and I lead him out of his house. I don't check if Haymitch is still on his porch, but closing my front door silents a sound, which I'm positive was a boisterous chuckle, from his direction.
I seat Peeta on my kitchen counter and take the first-aid kit from the cabinet. It's dusty, after months of non-usage, but still complete with all the basic necessities. I use the pincers to dislodge broken shards from his foot, and after many agonized groans and choice swearwords from his lips, I apply disinfectant and wrap his foot with bandages.
"Thanks." he murmurs, while gazing at me intently. I resolve staring at a particularly grisly cut on his chest. My mouth falls open after realizing it isn't the only one. Every other inch of his skin is filled with abrasions that I can't believe I hadn't noticed it earlier. They look rather fresh, I'd say less than a week old, and mostly swollen from infection.
"What?" he asks, with a hint of smugness. Heat floods my face, and I realize he must have mistaken my reaction for ogling at his bare torso.
"What the hell were you thinking?" I ask quietly as I can, attempting to suppress anger. A look of confusion spreads throughout his face. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, cutting yourself? You think that's going to be any help? Well sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but it damn won't!"
"What—"
"Can you imagine if one day, I come to visit you, and instead find your mutilated, lifeless body on the floor? I bet you wouldn't care, would you, you inconsiderate bastard!" I end up screaming at him, my fists resisting the urge to hit him.
He wipes tears I was unaware of from my cheek."You're concerned for me." he states with a stupid grin plastered on his face.
"Shut up." I grimace, smacking his hand away. He continues to watch me as I raucously rake through the contents of the cabinet beside his head, looking for an ointment to heal his cuts, and partly taking out my frustration at inanimate objects.
"Careful with your mouth." he murmurs after I proficiently utter continuous indecent oaths, as the salve remains evasive. And with a smirk he adds, "Save it for bedtime."
Unruffled by his allusion, my fingers finally find the ointment. I shamelessly dab a large portion of it on the first cut I see, and I'm rewarded with satisfaction when he emits a pained moan.
"That stings, Katniss." he growls, and I chuckle in reply. I reach my hand forward to apply some more of the cream, but he grabs my wrist and holds my gaze. I start to protest when he pouts and begins to whimper pathetically, and I bite my lip to stifle a laugh.
"I'm all right, really!" he says, coming down from the counter. "Just—just don't let that cream anywhere near me!" he throws his hands up in the air from exasperation, and I can't help the laughter that escapes from my lips regarding how ridiculous he's acting.
I don't remember the last time I've laughed like this, if I ever have at all, but I do know I've never felt this at ease with it, like it was natural, almost automatic. He stops dead in his tracks, and runs his hand through his hair before turning around to face me with an ear-to-ear grin.
"I forgot to thank you." I say, avoiding his gaze.
"For what?"
"Preventing my house from becoming a trash-hole."
He chuckles. "Pleasure. I don't think Haymitch's house needs competition."
I smile at him, but notice he's still watching me, causing me to awkwardly shift my weight. "Peeta?"
"Hm?" he says, closing in the distance between us, and we're back to where we started.
"Why didn't you come?" I murmur too softly, that I wonder if he heard me. "For dinner, I mean."
His forehead creases as his smile falters. "Flashback." he whispers.
"So?" I ask, suddenly irritated.
He looks taken aback. "I had a flashback, Katniss. I could have hurt you." he frowns.
"You stood me up." I say, glaring at him.
He smirks. "If it makes you feel any better, then I'm sorry." he says with a mock curtsy.
I give him a light push, before returning to the counter. He groans, seeing me pick up the medicine for his cuts. "Come on, Peeta, don't be such a baby." I say. "It's just a little ointment."
"They'll heal naturally." he mutters.
"They're already infected. They'd only aggravate with time." I say, rolling my eyes.
He huffs and resumes his seat, before crossing his arms. "No." he mumbles.
I laugh, but pass it off as a cough when he raises his eyebrows at me. "You're acting like a spoiled brat."
It's his turn to roll his eyes. "Look who's talking. 'You stood me up.'" he mimics me, with a nauseated look on his face. "Don't even get me started on how you stomped your feet this morning."
He stares me down when I start to glare at him. He gives up eventually and sighs defeatedly. "Let's get this over with."
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