A/N: Thank you so much to everyone reading. Thank you for supporting this story in any way, I really appreciate it. Just to let you know, my next chapter may take a little longer as my uni term begins this week.

Thank you to Amanda, Goldenhair and Rae for pre-reading and sharing their thoughts.

Thank you to Bookgeek80 for betaing.


Something Old

After running into Peeta's house in the middle of the night, listening to him had become my obsession. Before then, it had been an unconscious activity. Now I couldn't sleep, didn't dare go into my own nightmares unless I'd listened first. It didn't sit well with me. In the day, I didn't need anything. I wasted away the hours, staring at the primrose barricade, eating when I remembered and watching television when I trusted myself. At night, I had a routine. It wasn't of my own design. If I didn't listen for Peeta, didn't wait until he was asleep, the nightmares were unbearable. If I listened, then I'd be awake in the early hours, drenched in a cold sweat with a lingering image or a feeling that would last the morning.

Dr Aurelius had sent a bottle of cream colored pills on the train. They sat next to my bed, untouched and foreboding. I couldn't stomach the idea of swallowing a tiny capsule, even for the bliss of artificial sleep. They reminded me too much of being locked in a small room, craving the morphling my body had been deprived of. I'd take the nightmares over remembering those days.

The doctor wanted to talk about the night. Each week he'd call, ask questions and wait for an answer that never came. I was far better at waiting than he, so each week he dismissed our silences, and ended the call. Yet he always returned at the same time next week, never completely giving in. One of us would break eventually, but I was certain it wouldn't be me.

I had contemplated giving the pills to Peeta, but I wasn't sure if they'd help him. He had nightmares, though his problem wasn't in sleeping, but in waking from them instead. I'd seen him spend hours still stuck in a painful dream, while I tried to tell him it wasn't real. The days when he was stuck in an unpleasant memory were the better ones. It was easier to pull him out of something when I could tell him the event was over and that he was far away from the Capitol. The days when he thought every horrific thing he'd ever seen weren't real, those were the worst. The first time he'd calmly asked me where Prim was hiding was etched into my memory. I'd refused to speak to him for two days afterward.

I found myself in the woods more often than not. Old Katniss seemed determined to hang on to something in her world, even when her world no longer existed. I'd not seen Gale on the television again, but his presence was stamped into every tree and leaf. Some days it hurt, a sting that reminded me I was here. Other days it made me smile as I flicked berries into my mouth, pretending I could keep the old Gale and Katniss with me. I didn't have anything to do but wander and watch. I saw faces I knew creep back into our ghost town. With the mines gone, I didn't know how District 12 would function, but people wanted to find out.

It was a Monday evening, and I sat with my back against the wall, the phone against my ear. I'd been silent for a while, and watched the sun disappear behind the trees. Dr Aurelius had finished his usual amount of questions, and continued to suggest I try and fill my days with some sort of routine. I didn't see how that would help, and I hadn't bothered trying. I liked the doctor well enough, but I was tired of following someone else's plan.

"Katniss, do you know what the date is?"

The question startled me, disturbing our usual silence.

"No..." I replied, feeling a sudden sense of complete chaos. Time had passed by, that I knew and could realise. But not knowing the date made me feel unbalanced and wrong. There were dates I needed to remember. Seasons changing, festivals, births, anniversaries, endings and beginnings. I sat in silence, digesting this information until Dr Aurelius said his goodbyes. I stood up and walked away, going up the stairs and into my bedroom. As always, I listened to Peeta through the wall as he walked and muttered, his footsteps growing clearer as he moved into his room. Only once the noises ceased did I allow myself to drift into dreams.

#~#~#

As the sun rose, I started awake, the pictures behind my eyelids stubbornly refusing to disappear. I sat with my head in my hands, concentrating on my breathing and trying to remove them. It was so quiet, the deafening silence of the house making it difficult to distract myself. I couldn't hear Peeta at all. That in itself was strange, he was usually up at the break of dawn too. I found myself caught between jealously and relief at his ability to sleep, but dragged myself from my bed.

The quiet seemed thicker as I walked through the house, closed doors taunting me harshly. As I walked past the last door before the stairs, I paused for a moment. I turned and faced the dull wood, a strange urge to enter rearing its head. Unlike the other rooms, this one was not a forbidden space. I could enter; I just had no desire to. I hadn't seen the point in doing so up until now.

I carefully touched my hand to the metal of the handle. It was cold; colder than anything I'd touched in a long while. I imagined for a moment that the lack of use had caused the temperature to drop, but dismissed it quickly. It was ridiculous, no matter how true it felt. I pushed the handle down, surprised at the lack of resistance. The door didn't stick, didn't protest or shake, but opened as smoothly as it always had. Light slithered into the hallway, sun streaking through the gap in the door. I jumped as the phone rang, shaking my head and blocking it out as I slowly moved into the light.

The room was different that I last remembered. I'd not gone into it since before they sent me into the games for a second time, and since then, my mother had been here. This had been our storage room. The things that had no place went here, kept but not used. It wasn't exactly full, but somehow we'd still managed to need a place to keep useless things. It was the smallest room in the house, and obviously not designed to be a bedroom. We hadn't been sure what to do with it, and over time it became a dumping ground. There was an ugly looking mirror that had once hung downstairs. My mother had taken one look at it and flinched. It was stowed away pretty soon after. There were herbs and powders, medical supplies that were surplus or only needed rarely. I stood in the centre of the room, and turned slowly, taking in every inch. The phone started ringing once more as my eyes fixed on the wardrobe. It hadn't been there when I'd last seen the room, and a second later I found myself opening it.

I didn't expect much, and I wasn't disappointed. A bulky black dress carrier took up most of the space. I frowned, not having any idea what it could contain, but I didn't dare open it. It was left here and covered, and it wasn't me that should disturb it. Other than that, there were only a few outfits, the more elaborate clothing I'd once been provided with, and a few dresses that had belonged to Prim. I reached out an fingered the sleeve of the red one, remembering how uncomfortable she'd felt in it. The material scratched against my skin, and I dropped the sleeve. There were too many memories in something that had belonged to her.

I was about to walk away, when I noticed the hem of a dress tucked away behind other items. I reached in and felt around, pulling at the hanger with a shaking hand. The blue material spun before my eyes as I pulled the familiar dress of out the wardrobe. My dress from the reaping. The alterations were still there, pulled in to fit a gangly teen rather than an adult. It looked fresh in the morning light, as if it had been washed and pressed recently. I moved away from the wardrobe, taking the dress with me. It looked small, as if it had been made for a child rather than me. I wondered for a moment if it was the same dress.

Without thinking, I pulled it off the hanger, and pulled it over my head. The material brushed my face and arms like gentle fingers, as I pulled it down over my body. It fit. Actually, it was too big. Despite the alterations, it fell down without touching any curve of my body. That couldn't be right. I marched to the ugly mirror, desperate for it to tell me I was wrong.

It didn't. It was definitely the same dress, but my frame looked shrunken and changed within it. I could remember what I'd looked like when I'd worn it for the first time. Now I was thinner, my skin scarred and damaged. My hair was thin and broken, pieces missing and shorter than others. My eyes were wider, collarbone and sternum so pronounced that I could count each bone down to where the dress began. I didn't look like the same person who had worn the dress three years ago.

I looked away from the mirror as the phone began ringing once more. The sound felt far louder than before, echoing up the stairs and round the room. In annoyance, I turned and slammed the door of the wardrobe, satisfied at the noise it made. In the wake of the vibrations on the wood, something fell from the top of the wardrobe, hitting the floor. I jumped back, my reflexes kicking in monetarily. It was a book. I frowned moving forward, expecting it to be a discarded medical book of my mothers.

The book was open, a swirl of dark ink and coloured patterns meeting my eyes as I glanced down. The drawing that circled the text was so familiar I could have been reliving it. The picture made them appear dark and menacing, even though they were simply small fruits, no different than any in the woods. The word "Nightlock" was scrawled overhead, my handwriting so harsh and childish against Peeta's talented depiction of the deadly berries. I bent down and picked up my plant book, holding it as delicately as I had the dress. It was another thing that belonged to a different time and different people, precious as a memory of its creators.

When the phone rang once again, I dropped the book in anger. I couldn't handle the constant pull into the present, and in a rage I flew down the stairs, desperate for it to stop. The noise was painful in the silent stillness of the house, and I needed the quiet to be in that room.

"What?" I demanded into the receiver.

"Good morning to you too,"

"Do you want something, Haymitch?" I questioned, resisting the urge to bang my fist against the wall. There were very few people who had the number to this phone, and I was almost certain he had been calling all this time.

"Do you know what today is?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?" I said, barely resisting the urge to scream.

I heard Haymitch sigh on the other end, before he recited the date. I frowned, my anger disappearing almost instantly. I hadn't expected him to just tell me the date. I repeated the numbers out loud and in my head, trying to bring to mind anything that would signify its importance. At first I drew a blank, no dates at all coming to mind. Then slowly, occasions came to mind. Holidays, the day my father died, the Reaping, my mother's birthday, Prim's birthday, my birthday...

"Oh no..." I whispered, putting down the phone and running back upstairs to find my boots.

Peeta turned eighteen today.

#~#~#

I had a key, but decided it was probably better if I knocked. I waited, my legs shaking with unused energy as I listened for noises in his house. The silence of the morning made more sense now, and I was worried. At seventeen he'd had parents and brothers, a town and memory. Our world was completely different now.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the door creaked open. I tried to smile as Peeta appeared in the doorway, but my mouth wasn't co-operating. He stared at me, eyes glazed over, and I knew he wasn't really with me.

"Hi," I said, my voice soft as if speaking to a frightened child.

He blinked, his eyes widening.

"Why... why are you wearing that?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

I frowned and looked down, jumping as I realised I was still wearing the dress. My face burned at the knowledge that someone else had witnessed my re-creation. A sudden feeling of dread moved through me as I realised what this could possibly spark off for Peeta. But when I raised my eyes to him, he was gone. The door stood wide open, and I took it as an invitation to follow.

I guessed that he would be in the sitting room, and I walked in to find him sitting on the floor. The television blared quietly, an interview with a smiling woman from District 11, Peeta's eyes fixed on her every movement. Ignoring the chairs, I sat beside him. When he didn't even flinch, I decided to speak.

"Sorry about the dress. I... found it," I finished, realising that I couldn't define to myself exactly why I was wearing it.

Peeta turned at my voice, his mouth smiling, his eyes despairing. "I like the dress. I remember thinking that when I first saw you line up. It looked good on you."

Bile rose in my throat, and I had an urge to rip the dress from my body.

"I thought... when I opened the door I'd been dreaming again. You, in the dress... then I realised it was really you and not a memory."

I nodded. "No, I'm real," I said, but my voice held little conviction.

Peeta's attention was drawn back to the television, and I was once again at a loss.

"You can say it, you know," he said suddenly, causing me to turn and stare at the side of his face.

"Say what?" I asked

"Congratulations. I'm eighteen now. Officially no longer eligible for the Reaping. I'm free."
And with that he burst out laughing, his head thrown back in mirth, his eyes scrunched up and his hands falling to his sides.

My mouth went dry and all thought left me as I watched him laugh. His voice was high and hysterical as his head dropped down. His hands lifted to cover his face, and my own arms twitched at my side. I didn't know whether to run, hit him or speak. Except I couldn't move. My body and brain were no longer working.

Within a few moments of staring and listening, Peeta's laughter changed. He sounded strangled, choking, as if something were tied around his neck. It took me a few seconds to realise he was crying. I closed my eyes, hating that I'd not realised sooner how much this day was getting to him. I sat up, walking on my knees to him, the dress collecting dust as I moved. I wrapped my arms around his hunched form, my head resting on his. He tensed as I did so, his sobs continuing with the contact.

"I'm sorry," I said, wishing that I was the one with the gift of words.

Peeta didn't move, didn't try to touch me. I just kept my arms around him, feeling awkward and desperate. I wanted to do something, even as his tears slowed and his breathing evened out.

"I don't remember what happened last year," he said, his voice rough and empty. At his words, I unwound my arms, and slid back onto the floor. I sat near enough to be in touching distance, but not actually touching.

"What do you mean?"

He lifted his head, his face red from tears and his hands.

"I just... I have no memory of my birthday. I don't know what happened. I guess it was something else that disappeared."

I paused, thinking about what I should say carefully. "Well... you would have been living here," I started, but Peeta snorted. For a moment I worried he would start laughing again. but instead he spoke.

"That doesn't really mean anything. I would have been down at the bakery if was with anyone else. I was the only one who spent time here," he said.

"What?"

"We still used the Bakery, so I lived here and everyone else stayed there. My brothers lived here at first, but just ended up staying there. It was easier, I guess."

"You were here... alone?" I said, marvelling at the fact I didn't know this. It made sense, absolute sense. There was nothing in this house, nothing that made it a home. I'd never seen Peeta's family during the six months that I'd been living next door. Of course, I hadn't tried to see him. I'd hidden in the woods, kissing Gale and being the old Katniss. Trying to forget the things I'd seen in the arena, and the part that I'd played.

A lot of good that had done.

"Not alone. You were next door."

A smile and sweet words had me remembering the old Peeta. The person who said the right thing, did the right thing for the right reasons, and still found himself on the edge of madness. In that moment, I remembered our storage room, and everything I'd seen.

"I found our plant book. The one my father started. Do you remember helping me with that?" I asked.

Peeta's smile increased and he nodded.

"Yes. You hurt your foot. We sat in your bed and made it while you healed."

I nodded, and all at once my tongue was set loose and I remembered. Conversations that we'd had, disagreements and memories that we both treasured and remembered. It moved from our joint experiences to separate ones. Events at school, home and in our families. We sat there, me dressed in my Reaping outfit and Peeta's face streaked with tears.

And we remembered who we used to be.