Peeta has come for dinner the past few days and already it feels like a routine. Greasy Sae cooks, then leaves. Peeta and I do the dishes together, and then we sit in my living room. A couple of days ago we started to talk a little about the past, playing 'Real or Not Real' to help sort out some of his memories, but all of his questions were gentle, non-confrontational, sticking to safe topics. The kind of questions that I sense he's already pretty sure of the answers to. Testing the waters, as my father would say. Or maybe testing me, seeing if I'm trustworthy, seeing if I'll actually help.
Tonight I sense things will be different.
Peeta is considerably more nervous tonight, agitated even. Dinner is strained; I'm not good at small talk and tonight he doesn't even try. I wonder idly if he has had a bad day, or a bad night, but I can't make myself ask. While his eyes are downcast, concentrating on his plate of early greens and duck I let myself really observe him. He is regaining the muscle he lost to the Games and torture; digging in his garden and working with the large bags of flour he gets on the Capitol delivery trains have broadened his shoulders and strengthened his arms. The burn scars that travel up his neck and down his left arm are fading, they look much better than my own. He probably takes better care of them. Objectively he's even more handsome now than he was when he stood beside me on Reaping Day almost 2 years ago; his jaw is more defined and dotted with pale stubble that catches the light, his face has lost the softness of youth, he looks like a man now, which I guess he is. Today though, the circles under his eyes are dark and pronounced, making his eyes look sunken and sad. I wonder if he sleeps at all.
I wash the dishes and he dries, still silent but for the clink of plates and an occasional murmured thank you or that goes there. When we finish I turn to him, intending to ask if perhaps he's too tired to talk tonight, but he's already made his way into the living room. I follow and find he's settled into one of the armchairs, not on the couch where I can sit beside him, or on the floor where we've ended up together before. It feels more formal this way, like there is a barrier between us. I don't think it's a coincidence. I sink onto the couch and he makes eye contact with me for the first time. It does nothing to alleviate my unsettled feeling. His expression is wary, but determined, and I feel like I've disappointed him already though we've yet to say a word. If I was a better person I would think of something to say to ease the tension, to make him feel more comfortable and safe, but I have no words, so I sit silently watching him. He jumps in with no preamble.
"There was no baby, real or not real?" My heart breaks a little at this. If he's not sure about the fake baby then he must wonder if we've done things he can't remember, like he alluded to when we were in Thirteen.
"Real," I answer firmly. "You made up the story about the baby to protect me. And maybe to make the Capitol citizens feel bad about us all being in the arena again." Though we have never discussed his motivations I feel certain he was at least partially feeding off the dissent that the other Victors had started in their interviews.
"I wanted there to be a baby." His eyebrows are raised, but it doesn't feel like he's asking a question. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. "I was crying."
I nod, "You cried after, while we were all standing on stage together. I think…" I hesitate, this is tough already and we're only two questions in, but I promised that I would help him sort it out and these are the things that only I can help him with. I take a deep breath and continue, "I think you were crying because you believed that was a future you'd never have. A wife and a baby. A family of your own. We both… we both went into the Quell expecting to die." There is so much more that I can't add, that I don't have the words or the will to share.
"We weren't really married. Haymitch told me that much." There is a hesitation in his voice, like he's not completely convinced. I just shake my head. "But we were engaged," he continues.
"Yes, we got engaged during the Victory Tour. Snow wanted us to have a big Capitol wedding. Cinna designed a bunch of dresses for the people to vote on."
"You didn't want to be engaged." Flat, not a question. I shrug.
"I didn't want to be forced to be engaged," I say diplomatically.
"You didn't want to be engaged to me." There's an odd edge to his voice now and it's making me uncomfortable. I try to push down the anger that threatens to bubble up, he just needs clarity I remind myself, and you promised you'd help.
"It wasn't you," I fumble, trying to find the right words to make him understand, "I never wanted to get married to anyone, ever. In the districts, that was pretty much the only choice we got to make for ourselves, without the Capitol weighing in: who to marry or to not marry at all. And they were taking that choice away from us."
The look he gives me is so cold it's physically painful. "It was your idea, getting engaged. I remember that. I didn't want it."
I remember that too, the desperation, trying to do anything to convince Snow of that I was in love with Peeta, trying to quell an uprising in the districts that we had no power to stop, trying to keep our families safe. I remember the look on Peeta's face when I suggested it, the way he agreed but then locked himself into his room for the rest of the day. I didn't understand then, but I do now and the guilt is overwhelming. I have to choke back a sob before I can continue, "The public proposal was my idea, yes, but we would have had to have gotten engaged, and married, eventually. It was expected. They wouldn't have let the Star-Crossed Lovers live anonymously."
"What would have happened if we'd gotten married Katniss?" Peeta's voice is raised, his hands clenched into fists.
"What?" This is not in the realm of real or not real.
"Would you have gone through with it?"
"Yes," I answer immediately.
"You were going to run away." He pauses, and his brow furrows. "Real or not real?"
"We talked about it," I answer, a little evasively. "I – I asked you to. For all of us to run I mean. But you didn't think I'd go through with it. And you were right."
"Because you couldn't convince him." By him he means Gale, and I am not going to talk about Gale. I don't want to think about Gale, because thinking about Gale means thinking about her and I can't think about her right now. Or maybe ever. My silence has stretched on too long and Peeta looks agitated. "So what would have happened? You'd have married me; played it all for the cameras, then run off every night with someone else?"
"No," I interject, but he is frenzied, not listening to me now.
"We'd have hardly acknowledged each other behind closed doors but put on a show every time the cameras were out? Maybe even some make-believe married scenes for Snow to listen to with the bugs in the house?"
"Stop it!" I'm yelling now too, my face is burning with humiliation.
"And all the while you can barely tolerate me."
"You know that's not true!"
"Do I? You couldn't stand me before. Five months you didn't even talk to me!" He means after our first games I think, and while it's true that we didn't talk that wasn't entirely my fault.
"You didn't talk to me either!" I yell, giving up any pretense of staying calm. "I told you I was scared and confused and you avoided me, you wouldn't let me work through what happened with you or even give me a chance to explain what I was thinking or feeling, you just took off as if nothing had ever happened! And I was devastated! I missed you before we even got off that damned train!"
"You had a funny way of showing it, traipsing off in the woods, rubbing my face in the fact that it was all an act!"
"It wasn't like that!"
"Then tell me how it was! Explain it to me!"
"I… I… I can't..." I'm so confused; I don't know how to explain to Peeta what my motivations were then when I don't even know myself. How can I tell him that my every thought was about keeping Prim safe, keeping Peeta safe, Gale safe, our families safe, how can I defend myself when I failed, I failed every one of them, they're all dead or gone or irreparably damaged.
Peeta is pacing now, yelling maybe, I can see his mouth moving but I can't understand the words. His fists shake but all I can do is pull my knees up to my chest and drop my head onto them, wrapping my arms around my head, trying to shut out the litany only I can hear: it's your fault, you killed them all, they're all dead and it's your fault. It should have been you. You don't deserve to live. "No, no, no…" I moan but the voices don't stop, they get louder, more insistent, you're worthless, you don't deserve to live, you stole Prim's life, she should be here, you should be dead.
Distantly I hear my door slam as Peeta leaves.
The night brings its own horrors. I drift asleep, only to be awakened repeatedly by my screams as I watch everyone I love die over and over again. When the sun rises Greasy Sae finds me still curled up tightly in a ball, lying on my couch. She bends down to stroke my hair.
"Come eat child, there are some muffins in the kitchen." I glance towards the kitchen, then look up at her questioningly and she understands what I'm asking without me saying. "He's not comin' for breakfast today. Gave them to me on my way in."
"I'm not hungry," I mumble into my knees. She sighs, and pats my head.
"All right, well I'll leave them on the table, for if you change your mind." I'm grateful that she doesn't push me any further. She must understand that something happened last night and she's giving me some space to work through it. It's not in her nature to pry.
But when she returns at dinner time and finds me in exactly the same position she's more forceful. She gets me to my feet and makes me use the washroom, helps me wash my hands and face then sits me at the kitchen table. She gives me a glass of water and I stare at it, clutched between my trembling hands.
"Drink." She chides gently, and stands over me while I take a couple of sips. When she sets a steaming bowl of soup in front of me I stare at it blankly. She takes my face between her palms and forces me to look into her eyes, shining and grey, so much like my own, so much like my father's. "You can't be doin' this, you're too brave, too strong. You have to fight it, child. You have to fight." I am neither brave nor strong but I nod and make a show of eating a couple of mouthfuls of the soup, wild mushroom. I don't even taste it. Greasy Sae doesn't look convinced, but she leaves me be, tidying up and shooting me furtive looks before slipping out the back door.
As soon as she's gone I drop my spoon and any pretense of trying, and climb the stairs to the second floor. The closed door at the very end of the hall beckons me. I rest my hand on the knob, heart racing, unsure, but finally push the door open, slip inside and close it firmly behind me.
Everything is exactly as she left it that terrible night when the district was bombed. Her bed is neatly made, her books on the desk. I can almost pretend that she's simply at school and if I just sit here and wait she'll come running in, laughing.
Almost.
Impulsively I pull back the blanket and reach for her pillow, I bring it to my face and there she is: Prim, just faintly, her scent. Choking back a sob I wrap my arms around the pillow and try to imagine I'm hugging her instead, but it's no use, she's not here, she's never coming back and it's my fault.
I crawl into her small closet and collapse among the dresses and shoes and toys, the last small pieces of her, all that I have left of Prim. I curl up in the darkness, her pillow clutched tight, and let the blackness inside of me take over.
Do I sleep? I must, though I remember nothing, no nightmares, no dreams, no restfulness. I have no awareness of time passing. Sometimes I hear faint noises, maybe footsteps or voices, but nothing substantial penetrates the darkness, nothing intrudes on my solitude.
I'm drifting in and out of consciousness when I hear footsteps again and these catch my attention. These I recognise; heavy and slightly uneven, and definitely close by. They draw nearer with only the slightest of pauses until the closet door opens and Peeta is standing above me, silhouetted by the sun. He carefully lowers himself to sit facing me, our knees side by side in the cramped space. He's wearing the softest smile, part bemusement and part something else, I'm not sure, but his eyes look sad and regretful. I tuck my face back into the pillow and he simply sits silently beside me for a while.
"I had a long chat with Haymitch," Peeta finally says. I glance at him and he's still smiling softly, but not like he's laughing at me. "He told me about your tendency to hide in closets and ventilation shafts when you were in Thirteen." His smile widens, "I'm really glad right now that these houses don't have ventilation shafts, I don't know how I'd crawl into one with this leg." I look up to meet his eyes and they twinkle with mirth. "He also said I'm an asshole." I can feel my eyes widen in shock, the curse so unexpected from mild mannered Peeta. He notices and clarifies, "His word, not mine, but it's fitting."
He reaches over and pries my fingers from where they've been clutching the pillowcase for hours and begins to gently stretch and massage them, working out a day's worth of stiffness. It's comforting, I remember Prim doing the very same thing for me while we were holed up in Thirteen. I sniffle a little, teetering again on the edge of the blackness.
"I'm sorry Katniss," he continues, still concentrating on my hands. I bite my lip to stop the trembling; I don't want to cry anymore and I'm not certain I'm strong enough to hear what he has to say. But I have to make an attempt. He deserves that much. Besides, I can't run unless I physically climb over him, and I'd rather not do that either. He continues, haltingly, "Haymitch told me that I already spent five months punishing you for making impossible choices to keep us all alive, and that my memory loss is no reason to do it again." He pauses, and for a while only our breathing fills the small closet before he sighs, "It's not an excuse for my behaviour, but I'm finding it more difficult than I thought, working through these memories, because each one brings back a flood of emotions, of feelings I'm not sure how to process. I was so angry and I'm not entirely sure why, angry and jealous and overwhelmingly lonely. Those are emotions from another time I think, and I'm trying to figure out how to fit them into my memories without acting on them. Do you know what I mean?" I'm not really sure that I do, how could I, but I nod just the same.
We are quiet again. When he finishes massaging my fingers he holds my hands for a few moments longer and squeezes them gently. "I'm sorry that I hurt you," he continues, sadly. "I'm trying so hard to find out who I was, and who I am. Sometimes I think I have it figured out, but then I have a flashback or I lose my temper for no real reason. People keep telling me that I used to be a great guy, but I don't feel like that person very often."
I squeeze his hands back, in what I hope is a supportive way. "We're so broken Peeta, both of us, but you're still you, you're still the kindest person I've ever known." His eyes shine as his soft smile finally reaches them. I feel guilt flooding in; this sweet, gentle soul is apologizing to me when all of his pain is my fault. I find I can't hold his gaze and look back at the pillow in my lap, mumbling apologies as I do. "I'm so sorry Peeta, I never meant to hurt you. I made so many mistakes, I did so many things, so many terrible things."
His hand comes up and gently, but firmly tips my chin. His blue eyes lock with mine and he murmurs simply, "No." I could get lost in these eyes and I feel, not for the first time, like he can see all the way into me, see every terrible thing I've done, every insecurity, every fear, every secret. But instead of being full of loathing, they're kind and hold concern. "Katniss," he breathes, "We can't keep blaming each other. Or ourselves. I want my life to be about more than making up for the past. I want our lives to be more than that." His eyes are pleading now, begging me to understand, maybe to take this journey into the future with him. But what does he have to blame himself for? He understood the Capitol long before I did, lived through two games without compromising his principles, has even recovered from being tortured and hijacked. He's always been the one who was too good. And here is, offering to absolve me of my guilt. But there's too much darkness in me to be dispelled by his light. Too much blood on my hands. He releases my chin and I drop my head back down onto my chest.
When Peeta speaks again, his voice so soft and introspective I'm not sure if he's speaking to me at all. "I just keep hoping that one day I'll wake up and everything with be right in my mind again. That I'll remember all of the things that are real, and that all of the pictures they put in my head will be gone. That… that I'll know who I am. That I won't be confused, anymore." After a pause he whispers, "That I won't be afraid anymore." I reach out and lay my hand on his knee, but he just sits still, shoulders slumped, staring morosely at the closet wall. I know I should comfort him, I want to comfort him, but I don't have the words. I never have the words.
After a few quiet minutes Peeta lets out a deep sigh, and then flashes me a small smile. "Let's get out of here, my leg is going numb and you should eat." It's only then that I realize I'm hungry. How long have I been in here? Peeta has to crawl awkwardly out of the closet before he can pull himself up, but once he does he offers me his hand. I take it without hesitation, my body responding before my brain has a chance to overthink. His hand is large and so warm and I feel tingles all up my arm just from the contact. He squeezes my hand just slightly before releasing it and my breath catches. I turn away from him quickly, hoping he didn't notice. When I replace Prim's pillow and carefully smooth the blankets he stands back, watching but not interfering.
The kitchen has been tidied, yesterday's abandoned soup cleared away, the dishes washed up. "Where's Sae?" I ask. It's much later than I'd expected, well past 6, Sae should be here making dinner.
Peeta smiles before opening the oven and pulling out something wrapped in foil. "I told her that I'd make you dinner tonight." he says shyly. "She was worried when she came this morning and found the house empty and your bed not slept in."
I can feel the guilt squeezing at my chest, physically painful, and I sink into a chair, dropping my head into my hands, fighting back tears. Peeta is in front of me in a flash.
"No," he says, touching my shoulder, "I didn't mean it like that, don't feel guilty. She just cares about you. She's not upset, and neither should you be. I was with Haymitch when she came by to ask about you, that's all." I nod but I don't lift my head.
After a moment he turns away and busies himself with dinner. When I finally raise my head he's setting out plates of meat pie, golden pastry covering thick gravy and potatoes and chunks of what smells like squirrel. My mouth waters, I've never had a meat pie before, and this doesn't disappoint, it's amazing, and I tell Peeta so. He blushes, murmuring that he's glad I like it. I more than like it.
Dinner is a quiet affair, but it always is with us. When we've finished I gather the plates and begin to wash them, and Peeta slides in wordlessly beside me to dry, as if nothing has changed, as if things are as they were before we started working on sorting out his memories. I feel like he's reading my mind when he speaks. "Katniss," he begins, "I really am sorry about the other night. I know you were trying to help me, and I appreciate your help so much. I know I wrecked it by losing myself like that." I make to protest but he cuts me off, "Dr. Aurelius has been telling me for months that I need to let go of the past, to accept that there are things I can't change and things I'll never recover. To focus on making new memories. I'm going to take his advice." He's nodding at me, his expression so earnest, so guileless. "Remembering the past isn't worth the risk of hurting you, or Haymitch or anyone else. I remember the important stuff, everything else, well, it'll either come or it won't. I'm not going to force it anymore."
I flash him what I hope is an encouraging smile. I know I should tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, that hiding in the closet wasn't about him, not really, it was about escaping the blackness that lives in me, but I don't have the words. Instead I finish the dishes. Peeta stows the leftover pie in my refrigerator, then makes towards the back door. I don't want him to leave, I know if he does I'll find myself right back in Prim's closet.
"Peeta," I call him so softly, maybe he won't even hear. He does though, and he turns. His expression is carefully neutral but I think I see a sliver of hope in those soft blue eyes. I force myself to say the rest. "Will you stay for a while? We, uhm, we could sit in front of the fire?" The light that floods his eyes was worth the discomfort of asking.
We settle onto the couch, side by side, and watch the flames. I'm exhausted from two sleepless nights and the emotional drain of the past few days and can barely keep my eyes open. Without thinking I lean my head onto Peeta's shoulder. I sense his cheek leaning against my hair before I fall asleep.
I don't know how much time has passed when I feel myself being lifted off the couch and carried up the stairs. I war with myself a little, I want to wake up and protest that I'm perfectly capable of walking, but I'm so groggy and the strong arms encircling me are so warm and comfortable that, just this once, I relax and let him carry me. Peeta sets me gently on my bed and pulls the blankets up to my chin. I'm drifting off again when I feel his lips so softly brush against my temple. Their warmth follows me into slumber.