The next day I check Peeta's hands again and give him the all clear to use his left. He attempts making bread one handed. I like the look of concentration on his face as he determinedly kneads the dough, having to turn slightly sideways on to the kitchen counter to do it. The bread isn't as good as his usual produce but it's a hell of a lot better than my feeble attempt. Being able to bake again puts him in a much better mood though and he whistles tunelessly while he works. I must laugh out loud as he turns to me and asks me 'What?' I shrug and say that I don't understand how anyone can be so tone deaf. He pretends to be cross and flicks dough at me. It's a good day.
We all take turns caring for each other. Some days I wake up screaming and Peeta strokes my hair and holds me in his strong arms so I calm down and sleep peacefully. Some days Haymitch drinks particularly hard and is particularly ill. I must admit that Peeta usually cleans him up too but I always make sure to bring him some of whatever Greasy Sae has cooked for me. Haymitch and I take turns with Peeta. If he has nightmares, I hold his hand or press my body against his. If he has an episode Haymitch usually takes control in case my presence makes it worse, but increasingly I don't let him.
My mother calls me one day to tell me to take Peeta's stiches out. I run across to get him and find him painting. The canvas is turned away from me so I can't see it. He follows me back to my house and we repeat our previous surgical procedures, he holds the phone and I careful pick out the stitches according to my mother's precise instructions. When I'm done she makes me pass the phone to him and I can hear her giving him strict warnings about what he is and isn't allowed to do. He says 'yes Mrs Everdene' and thanks her with a grave sincerity. He tells her that even if he can't use his hand properly for a while he can at least already hold a paintbrush again and is feeling much better. I wonder what he is painting.
I find out about a week later after he has an episode. It is an unusual one as it is just before dinner, not late at night or in the early hours of the morning. I get to his door first but Haymitch catches up to me and pushes me roughly away. 'This one's mine, sweetheart' he says, leaving no room for argument. 'Why?' I ask, not to challenge him, just because I don't understand though it comes out sounding harsher than I intend. 'Didn't you see the news?' he asks. I shake my head. I never turn the television on. In my whole life I've never seen anything on it that hasn't made my existence harder or more miserable. 'What was on it?' I ask, terrified there has been some disastrous news from the Capitol, that war has broken out again or more bombs will be dropped. Haymitch replies with only one word. 'Gale.'
I understand why it needs to be him that deals with Peeta this time. I slump down outside wishing he hadn't told me. I can't deal with thinking about Gale yet, what he meant to me, what he did to Prim. I can't think about Prim right now either. I want to run away, run away to the woods and scream but I can hear Peeta upstairs, hear him shouting and something hitting the wall and shattering. I can't go until I know he's ok.
I sit there until Sae comes out and physically drags me home. She sits me at the table and says 'eat'. I do, as she is standing over me, but I don't taste a single mouthful. Haymitch comes over after I've finished and jerks his head indicating that its ok for me to go over now. He sits himself down in my empty seat and helps himself to the food that is left. I walk slowly over to Peeta's. I want to see him, but at the same time I dread what he'll say. I can't talk about Gale, not yet. Not to him, not to anybody, not even to myself. I find him in his room. He is painting again, or to be more accurate, looking at two paintings. 'Can I see?' I ask quietly. He frowns and thinks for a moment. 'I don't mind if you look, but you might not be ready' he says thoughtfully. I like that he has given me the choice. I'm sick of people telling me what I shouldn't do. I take his words seriously. I don't know if I'm ready either as I don't know what they are. If he had just said no I would definitely have looked. 'How about a cup of tea first and maybe you can show me later?' I suggest. Peeta nods. He is still shaking from his fit so I keep my hand on his arm as we go down to the kitchen. We make tea together as we have many times before. I boil the water in the pan as he can't lift it with his hand, and he gets the mugs and tea leaves. We take our cups through and sit on his sofa. I tuck my feet up and lean against him. He sighs and we sit comfortably for a while but I'm leaning against his arm and he can't drink his tea so eventually he asks me to move. Moving just inches away feels unbearably hard. I ask if he wants food and offer to bring some from home. He shakes his head and instead asks me to bring a plate in from the kitchen that has a tea towel covering it. It's cookies and he starts munching his way through the whole plate. I question if cookies is enough for dinner. He glowers at me and says darkly. 'I've survived two hunger games, torture and a war. I f I want to have cookies for dinner, I will.' I can't help but laugh.
When he's finished we go back upstairs. He must be feeling better as when I climb into bed with him he doesn't tell me off or make me promise to leave. We simply curl up together and sleep the whole night though. In the morning I wake first. I get up as I notice that his bedside table is upside down on the other side of the room. He must have hurled it there during his fit. I go to pick it up and put it back. One of the legs has broken but I think I can easily mend it, though I might need to borrow some tools from Haymitch or Thom. As I examine it I look up and see what was on the two canvases.
He was right. I'm not ready.