After a lot of writing and rewriting, I finally finished this chapter! It's not perfect, but it's certainly better than earlier drafts. Thanks to all who left me feedback and favorited/followed! I feel so lucky to have such incredible viewers. I take every compliment and suggestion to heart, I promise. :)
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I don't know what wakes me, but when I open my eyes, I'm embraced by stagnate morning air. The world around me spins silently, but the absence of action is peaceful; I sigh heavily. For the first time in weeks, my mind feels clear. My muscles relax.
My memory struggles to grasp the dreams that quickly escape me, but there's nothing to hold on to. I didn't have a nightmare last night, remarkably. The feeling of absolute calm as it washes over me is just as pleasurable as it is unfamiliar; I refuse to take this moment for granted, as I know that it won't last very long.
Since last night, Peeta and I have repositioned slightly. Now, he's lying on his back, holding me against his chest; his arms are still enveloped gently around my frame, the warmth from his body winding around me like ribbons. His breath is steady, subdued, indicating his unconsciousness. I peer up at him through the golden glow of dawn, the light from the rising sun glinting off of his blond eyelashes. Everything about him is so soft; his skin, his lips, his faintly tousled hair. Yet there's still a strength in his being through his broad shoulders, his sharp jaw… the way his hands cup my shoulder and the small of my back in his sleep. His chest rises and falls gently and I watch him, illuminated from the sunrise just outside of the open window. I breathe him in, every nerve in my body pacified. I could lie here forever, pretending the world around us wasn't real, forgetting all adversities and obligations.
It's not too long after I wake that I feel Peeta stir against me; my fingers delicately flex at the shirt over his chest as his eyes flutter open. Within a second the haziness in the blue dissipates and his focus contracts on me. His chest swells as he inhales, followed by a quick expiration of air.
"You stayed," he murmurs delicately, a strange concession of relief in his tone.
Did he think I would leave him? As if I had reason to. I had no place to be even if I'd wanted to go, but that was certainly out of the question. Only how I felt in my woods on a temperate afternoon could compare to this. Waking up with Peeta is my oasis in the desert of these past months. Refreshing, redeeming, luxurious.
But for some reason, I can't find the words to tell him this. Instead, in my usual stubborn tone, I toss back, "Good morning to you, too, Peeta."
His responding grin is silken, mollified. "How'd you sleep?"
"Surprisingly well. Not a single nightmare." With one hand, he begins to play with the very ends of my knotted mane; I need a haircut. "How about you?"
One of his arms around me tightens for a brief second. "Better than ever." I can hear it in his voice and see it in the lunar blues of his irises: since you're here.
And then his gaze leaves me to take in the final stages of the sunrise; pastel pinks and oranges streak across the pale blue, dusting over snow-blanketed treetops, the intermittent clouds slightly lavender. I know how much he loves sunrises, and maybe that's why he always sleeps with the window open.
We lie there for quite some time in a state of comfortable silence as he absent-mindedly toys with my hair and I rest my cheek against his chest, hearing the reassuring thumping of his heart. This is the Peeta that I grew to become so fond of. It's almost as if, in this moment, the Capitol had never taken him. As if the revolution hadn't occurred. As if both of us were stable, not even cracked to begin with.
Almost.
But as the sky loses its warm tones, being swathed in icy azure, it begins to settle into our bones that time still continues to persist without our consent. He offers to make me breakfast, and I accept as we both unhurriedly slip out from in between the sheets. Peeta gets up first, and the moment that I rise from the blankets, a sharp pain shoots through my ankle, my equilibrium dissolves and my knees buckle. Thankfully, Peeta's arms find me before I drop.
"Are you okay?" The panic in his voice is thick as his grasp tightens.
My eyelids flutter as I try to blink away the spots. "Yeah. Just a little light-headed." Quite more than a little.
He helps me back onto the bed. "Maybe I should take you to the doctor. Breakfast can wait."
But I don't want to go to the doctor. I hate medics; the only one I ever trusted was my mother, and subsequently Prim. With all of my experiences with needles and IVs and medicine in the Capitol and District 13, the thought of a hospital makes me shutter.
"I don't want to go."
"Katniss, you have to. You hurt your ankle and your head, not to mention the fact that you could've caught something from being out in the cold for so long."
"I feel fine, Peeta." As if to contradict me, my body expels a cough.
His mouth hardens into a line; his grasp around me won't give. Not that I particularly want it to, but even so. "I'm taking you in, Katniss."
Characteristically, my stubbornness is insurmountable, but there's something in his tone that implies he is not a force to be reckoned with on the issue of my health. I roll my eyes and make it clear as day to him that I am far from pleased with his decision, but I don't protest. This is not a battle I can win.
As I sit on the bed, still recovering from the dizzy spell, Peeta rushes to throw a clean change of close on, grabbing a t-shirt and some sweatpants for me to wear. As I slip them on, I can see in the way that he stifles a smile that he's more than proud to see me in his clothes, but I fake oblivion.
And then he inhales. "I can carry you."
Now that is something I won't stand for. I may have a tweaked ankle and one hell of a bump on my cranium, but if I can manage to get out of two arenas alive then it surely shouldn't be beyond me to walk a block or two.
"Not a chance."
Like me, Peeta is well-versed in knowing when to pick his battles and he relinquishes. With just one hand around my waist for minimal support, he helps me stand. This time, the faintness passes within a few seconds. He clutches me as I hobble down the stairs and out the door—by the time we're already halfway down the street, I've realized it would have been exponentially simpler for him just to carry me like he suggested. But I'm not about to admit that.
The clinic is nested in a quaint, two-story building at the edge of the market. At this time of morning, enough people are flocking through the street that I don't go unnoticed. A few offer to help me, and with gentle appreciation from Peeta, he assures them that he has it under control. I produce nothing more than a weak smile.
By the time we reach the office, my exasperation has climbed sharply.
"Everyone in this damn district can't keep to themselves, can they?" I mutter crossly. Peeta tugs the heavy metal door open with is free hand and the two of us limp in.
"They just care about you, Katniss."
"Why don't they go invest their time into someone a little bit more worthwhile?"
Peeta shakes his head, chuckling slightly at my overt aggravation. He helps me into one of three chairs in the petite waiting room which is buzzing with silence in its vacancy. My nose crinkles at the overbearing scent of antiseptic and bleach. My mind flies back to hospital beds, to treatment, to pills, and I can feel my throat constricting. My fingers clutch at the plastic armrest of my chair, knuckles whitening.
At my side, I can tell Peeta can sense my rising stress as he lays a palm over the back of my hand. "It's okay. We'll be out of here before you know it."
I'm about to open my mouth to complain once again when the door by the reception table cracks open, issuing a sylphlike woman in black trousers and a white lab coat. She seems slightly taken aback once she acknowledges us and then immediately regains her composure.
"Hi! How can I help you?"
I can feel my frustration rising as she steps over to us. She seems pretty damn cheerful for someone who's around injuries and disease all day. Nevertheless, her brown eyes reflect the genuine smile that pulls at her lips.
Peeta rises to shake her hand, his expression warm and good-natured. "I'm Peeta Mellark, and this is Katniss." He motions to me and I muster a very clearly forced smile.
She reaches her hand down to me, and reluctantly, I take it in my own.
"I know who you two are," she laughs blithely. "I'm Mae. How can I be of service?"
After a few moments of silence I realize that Peeta is watching me, waiting for me to speak for myself.
I clear my throat, but even afterwards my voice is still a low grumble. "I fell yesterday. I… uh… lost my balance." Mae just blinks unsuspectingly. "I hit my head and I think I may have twisted my ankle."
Without further explanation, Mae leads the two of us past her reception desk and through the door she emerged from. The hallway behind the waiting room is painted in muted yellows, radiating a newfound warmth. I feel the tension in my muscles dispel partially.
She helps us into a room and lets Peeta boost me up onto the examination table. Her fingers tuck her glasses onto the bridge of her nose as she swipes the clipboard from a pocket in the door. Peeta remains standing beside the bed, hand delicately resting on the small of my back—he may not know it, but just his touch alone soothes me substantially. Despite my hatred of being around doctors, having someone here watching out for me calms me just enough.
Mae issues the routine questions, her voice remaining at a musical lull. Her professionalism is unquestionable, but the more she speaks, the less resentful of her I become. Clearly, she's incredibly clever as well as kind, and as she examines my skull, my pupils, and my still swollen ankle, I begin to wonder why I begrudged her in the first place.
She rewinds the wrap around my bruised foot and assures me that it's not broken, just slightly sprained. She also relays that I don't have a concussion and appear to be relatively healthy. However, she prescribes a week of rest, telling me to stay off the ankle and move with caution.
"Is that it?"
"That's it, Ms. Everdeen. Just take good care of yourself for the next week and you should be back up to speed in no time."
I nod, my spirits significantly lighter than the moment I walked in. Maybe it's because the thick stench of bleach has become less noticeable.
Peeta thanks her for me and we're off within the minute; he helps me hobble hopelessly back through the market, down the dirt pathway dusted in patches of snow. His hand does not leave my waist as it clutches at the fabric of my shirt—his shirt, technically—holding my body beside him.
"That wasn't so bad, now was it?" he teases good-naturedly.
I grumble instinctively but don't disagree. By now, my ankle is throbbing uncontrollably from every accidental step, every ounce of unintended pressure. "The worst is yet to come."
"What do you mean by that?"
Had he been absent for the entire appointment? "I've basically been put on bed rest for the upcoming week!" If there is one thing that Katniss Everdeen is not equipped to handle, it is undoubtedly being babied; and that's exactly what bed rest calls for. Even if I manage to hop around the house, spending time in the great outdoors is exceedingly far out of the question. This means I will be bound to my home for a week, unable to take care of myself. Although I certainly don't mind having Peeta around, he already pampers me enough as is. I'm sure he would jump at the opportunity to take care of me for several days on end, but I can't ask him to do that. Not after all he's done for me already.
Suddenly, I feel his nose affectionately nuzzling at the side of my cheek by my ear; mechanically, I flinch at the touch as he whispers, "Poor Katniss. Whatever shall she do?"
Before mulling it over, my hand stiffens at my side in preparation to smack him for the comment. But once he expels a delicate chuckle that quickly shadows his remark, I feel the tension release; I have no need to be aggressive with Peeta. As I'm continually reminded, every move he makes is in good faith; his innocuous banter is clearly only intended to lighten the mood rather than push my buttons.
For the most part, at least.
"Well," I reply markedly bluntly. "I could always starve to death in my own room or go stir-crazy from being away from my woods so long. See whatever happens first."
Even though my remark is particularly snide, he doesn't seem to let it phase him. "I can't do much about the second part, but I took a vow the day I adopted you from Greasy Sae's care: I will not let you starve."
"Peeta, I'm not going to ask you to take care of me…"
"And you don't have to ask." His returning grin is brilliant in its delight; why he seems to be more than thrilled over the situation is beyond me, but I don't try and dwell on it too long.
By this point, the two of us have stumbled under the shadow of the metal arch that leads into the Victor's Village. We're greeted with a frigid, arctic chill of wind and I feel my teeth begin to chatter.
Peeta ushers me back inside his house, helping me onto the sofa. The air inside is beginning to cool off, and even though it's just before noon, Peeta disappears to the backyard, returning moments later with firewood. I let myself settle in on the couch as I watch him light a fire, the cushions tailoring to my contours. Within moments, a flame burns in the hearth, smothering the room with inviting warmth. Even though both Peeta and I have houses with similar blueprints, there's something about his place that's much more welcoming than mine. Maybe it's because I didn't always live alone in mine—before the war, before the Quarter Quell, my mother and Prim lodged here, too. Now, the room that belonged to my mother remains cold and dusty; the one that Prim used to stay in hasn't even been unlocked. It's as if large sectors of my house are branded as prohibited, and most mornings my house doesn't feel like a home.
Something about Peeta's is far different. It may be because I've never been alone in his. I recognize that he implicitly appreciates the company just as much as I do and he constantly works at pleasing me whenever I'm visiting. No matter the reason, as I limply lounge on the sofa while Peeta tends to the fire, I get a strange, unidentifiable feeling that this is the place where I belong.
Of course, the brief moment of meditation is shattered by the sound of the door swinging open. No knock, as should be expected.
"Good morning, Haymitch," I greet squarely.
He staggers a bit, sobriety in question, but still manages his typical sarcastic smile. "Nice to see you, sweetheart. How's the head?"
It's Peeta who responds for me as he stands, turning away from the fireplace. "No concussion. But she's got a bit of a sprain."
I lift my foot from the sofa to exhibit my injury. It's still swathed in thick gauze, but in a far more skillful manner than last night. The way Mae wraps wounds is bizarrely artistic.
I expect Haymitch to at least circuitously probe at an account of last night, but he seems to comprehend that it's not something I'm willing to explain. Instead, he makes himself comfortable in an armchair across from the sofa; Peeta sits down at my feet, taking them into his lap before removing my shoes and absent-mindedly rubbing the soles. I feel my system shudder with satisfaction and have to fight to compose myself.
Haymitch makes fairly lopsided conversation with us for a few moments, still as acidic in his jabs as ever, but familiar all the same. It's not long before the fidgetiness in his movements begins to express itself; his hands tremble slightly, he swallows constantly, his eyes darting anxiously. Sobriety has surely never favored Haymitch. He bids us farewell for the afternoon, complacent but quick, and then it's just the two of us again.
We retreat to typical hobbies—me to my writing, Peeta to his painting. I'm scripting a brief bio on Madge as he alights on his stool, his wrists rhythmically working away in graceful brush strokes. Peeta is stationed in the light of the open window, the drawn drapes allowing surges of sunbeams to coat him in their luminescence. The golden rays underscore his features. His eyelashes appear particularly blonde like his tousled curls, and for a brief moment I refuse to believe that he's anything less than celestial. But then I remember I shouldn't be looking at him like that.
When the light of day begins to diminish, he retreats to the kitchen to start dinner preparations. Although I can't cook to save my life, I keep him company in the kitchen, propped up on the counter as he works around me. We maintain decent conversation as he moves on autopilot; baking is so customary to Peeta that he doesn't have to think while doing it, so dialog bounces back-and-forth between us, sharp and uninterrupted. At one point, he dips a finger in a vat of batter, lifting it up to my lips to taste it. When I open my mouth to draw it in, he surprises me by instead dabbing the tip of my nose with it. Although my face grows red instantaneously and I forge irritation at his laughter, it isn't long before I break down into giggles as well.
After dinner, Peeta feeds the fire and the two of us curl up at the foot of the hearth for the evening. I sit upright, injured ankle elevated on a pillow, Peeta's head resting in my lap. My fingers sweep through his golden curls and his eyes close, breaths steadying, a subtle grin whispering over his lips.
Once the fire begins to wane, we let it run its course. My consciousness is fading now, my thoughts hazy. Peeta lifts me to carry me up the stairs; I don't protest, and I let him lay my wearied body onto the bed and tuck me underneath the thick sea of blankets. In just a few moments, I feel his warm figure snuggling up against my back, his face burrowing in the hair by my ear. My expended mind attempts to wrap itself around how things came to be this way—how I ended up in Peeta's home, in his bed, in his arms—but momentarily afterwards I give up and just accept the situation as it is. At the moment, I am happy. A feeling as fleeting as that should be enjoyed rather than dissected.
In the morning, I awake to bundles of sheets in my arms and alarmingly empty space. I am alone.
I jerk around wildly, expecting to find Peeta shuffling through drawers in his dresser or sitting by the window. But the room is vacant. A chill passes through my body.
"Peeta?" I call out, panic settling in my core. I jolt upright.
I'm about to throw myself out of bed, ignoring my bad ankle, when the bedroom door swings open. In walks Peeta with a tray situated in his palms.
Relief floods my system.
"Good morning," he greets warmly, setting the platter on the empty cavity in the mattress at my side. I eye it carefully—oatmeal, apple slices with brown sugar, scrambled eggs.
"Peeta, you didn't have to…" I feel my cheeks flushing violently and I run my hands through my dark locks, pushing them out of my face.
He shrugs as if the act was trifling. "It's not like I had anything more important to do."
As that statement settles in my core, it stimulates a hollow ache. It would be ignorant to deny the fact that Peeta's days are filled with particularly mundane tasks that are used principally to pass the time when I'm not around. I'm really all he has, aren't I? Even after these past few months? Sure, the people in town all admire and think the world of him, but I'm the only person besides Haymitch that he habitually engages with. And because Haymitch is reliant on nothing unless it directly links him with booze, the only individual who needs Peeta in trade like he needs them is… me. My days are purposeless and monotonous without him, much like his are without me. He brings excitement to the table and drive to get up in the mornings, and I can't help but assume he views me in the same way.
The following week passes in a rather relaxing rhythm. Breakfasts in bed, lunches on the patio out back, mid-mornings and afternoons chock-full of painting, of writing, of talking about anything and everything. Evenings by the fire. Nights curled up in bed, tailoring to each other's' forms, adapting even breathing patterns and concordant heartbeats. It's during these routines that I think about him, and me, and what we are.
Peeta and I have such an odd relationship. I, Katniss Everdeen, am the stubborn ringleader with persistently fluctuating emotions. And he, Peeta Mellark is the supportive, compassionate caregiver with undying patience and inherent charisma. I am aggressive, Peeta is passive. He wants to build things up and mend fissures, and I destroy everything in my path. Yet somehow, miraculously, we coexist. He is my dandelion in the spring; he offsets my demolition with his inherent promise of restoration. He counters me, he balances me, he ties up all of my loose ends.
And that is why, while the two of us are curled up together one night, I understand.
Peeta is arched into my back, knees tucked behind mine, arms twined around my silhouette. I hear him sigh my name almost inaudibly, followed by a low but clear, "Good night, beautiful."
And maybe it's the additional label that finally pushes me to realization. Maybe it's the shiver that ripples down my spine to the very tips of my toes, warming my whole body. Maybe it's the goose bumps that ensue.
No matter the cause, the sudden recognition triggers the stiffening of my muscles, my breath catching somewhere in the bed of my lungs.
I understand now. Everything suddenly makes sense.
I'm falling for Peeta Mellark.
For the first time since sleeping with Peeta, I have nightmares.
They're far from realistic, all flickering through my mind as eruptions of color and sound. I see Peeta with me in the cave, bleeding out from his stab wound. I see him trying to strangle me. I see him pleading for us to kill him during the revolution. I see him screaming, his fingers pulling at his skin; this is the only one that is clearly unreal, yet it takes on the most terrifying quality of all. Peeta thrashes in my arms, overcome by one of his hallucinations. His nails dig into his flesh, only now he's ripping it off of his bones, tearing himself apart at the seams—literally. I try to stop him but my strength can't compare. Peeta is gone. In his place, a violent, self-destructive mutt has surfaced. This is not the boy with the bread, not the victor, not my dandelion.
I jolt awake to my own screaming, writhing in between the sheets. Something is restraining me, holding me, only causing me to flail harder. "Peeta!" I cry his name, into the darkness, into the humid air inundated with sweat.
Katniss. It's okay. I'm here. A voice whispers in my ear, but it sounds almost as if it resonates from behind a wall; it's muffled, distant, painfully out-of-reach. You're not alone. I'm here, Katniss. It's okay.
I cry out his name again.
And then I realize that my restraints are not fetters. Peeta's arms hold me back, hold me to him, warming me, fingers stroking through my hair in soothing movements.
My thrashing has calmed, my screams turning into pathetic whimpers. The scent of saltwater from my face cloaks the room and I crumple into Peeta's grasp, my front turning into him and then coiling up feebly. I tremble as he holds me, murmuring assurances in my ear, rubbing circles on my back, over my shoulders.
He does not ask once about the nightmare as we lie there, shrouded in dampened sheets. I'm thankful he doesn't. I don't have the heart to explain.
We remain in silence, intertwined, until dawn breaks from outside Peeta's open window. Neither of us have slept since we were awoken by my nightmare and the part of me that isn't completely overwhelmed by thought feels guilty for keeping him awake. But I say nothing.
When Peeta slips out to go prepare breakfast, I feel regrettably relieved that he's gone. I can't think in his presence—not when he's unceasingly reminding me through his gentle, affectionate demeanor of why all of this is happening.
I can't fall for him. I can't love Peeta; I simply won't assent to myself reaching that point. The nightmare only sustained my theory: Everything I love slips from my grasp. My father. Prim. Even Gale, even Cinna. All of them, now dead, or dead to me. I can't allow that to happen to the one thing in this life that I have left. The only reason that I've advanced this far in the right direction is because of his stabilizing companionship; I can't afford loss of that because I selfishly crave something more. I can't afford to feel that ache that is all too familiar. The thought of it paralyzes me with terror.
What's even more frightening than the notion of losing him is the notion of loving him so unconditionally. Such wholehearted affection is detrimental, unpredictable, agonizing. It's one of the most destructive forces I've come to face and has never shown me justice. Love is weakness that I cannot cope with. I already have faulty armor; letting my guard down entirely, even for someone that I trust with my life, is not something I'm equipped to handle. I've built up too many walls to allow someone to waltz in like that and annihilate them.
But the gravest fear of all: I know, deep down, that I want to love Peeta. What I felt in my chest on the beach in the Quarter Quell, that unrelenting spreading of warmth… I want that again. I want to familiarize myself with that foreign but satisfying sensation once more. And there is no other soul on this planet that could provide that unmitigated pleasure like Peeta could. I can't imagine anyone else in his place.
But I can't love him. I can't risk all that I have for something unnecessary and so entirely devastating.
When I hear his feet pattering up the steps, I roll on my side, back to the door, and feign unconsciousness. The pit of my stomach feels hollow as I do so, but I can't bring myself to face my problems. Not yet.
I hear his tongue roll around my name as he calls it out, delicate as ever, to probe my slumber. After a moment, he must conclude that I've drifted off, because the sound of his footsteps fades.
My throat feels thick; my eyes sting. Every inch of my body aches to call Peeta back, but my mind scolds it. You shouldn't want that, Katniss.
I'm unsure of whether or not I drift off; all I know is that time elapses excruciatingly slowly as I listen for Peeta's movements downstairs. Clamor in the kitchen, passage in the lounge. He's certainly keeping himself busy.
Around noon, Peeta comes back and crawls underneath the comforter with me. His arms find my waist, pulling me in like a drowning sailor lost at sea. Instead of habitually immersing myself in his warmth, I feel my entire body go rigid at his grasp.
He senses my aloofness immediately.
"What's wrong?"
His unsuspecting innocence releases a painful twinge in my chest, but I refuse to let it show. "Just tired." He merits more of a response than that, but for now, it's all I can muster without breaking down.
His nose brushes against my ear, and within seconds my mind has converted to a battlefield. I want to let him in—and then, a moment later, I want to find myself as far away from him as possible.
Maybe distance is what I need.
"My ankle's been better. Maybe I should go home."
It's only takes an instant for Peeta's breath to catch somewhere in his ribs, and I can hear the abrupt devastation expand in his consequent sigh. But I refuse to look up at him, for I know that his blue eyes will hook me in with their piteous combination of shock and dejection, and within moments my resolve will crumble. I've recognized that I've crossed the line when it comes to getting close to him; now I need to redefine boundaries even though I know it will be no easy feat.
"Oh." That's all he manages. I know what he wants to say: I thought you would stay. Up until this morning, I thought I would, too. But then I remembered that I need to deem him as solely a friend, not a lover. And after sleeping together for almost a week, I'd say we got pretty damn close to the latter.
I sigh. "I'm sorry." Although it surely sounds like I don't mean it.
The hesitation in his breath drags me in.
"Is it… is it something I did?"
His question slams into me like a concrete slab, shattering me into a thousand tiny pieces. I feel myself cringe automatically. How am I supposed to tell him that he's done absolutely nothing wrong? If anything, it's because he's been so unfalteringly benevolent that I've arrived at this conclusion. Peeta has slowly but definitively morphed from the Capitol-crafted mutt back into the boy that threw me the bread when we were both children, to the man who came and held me every night on the train to try and erase my nightmares. I don't know how I ever thought that he couldn't be recovered. This Peeta with me has resurfaced like he'd never left, the only difference being his intermittent hallucinations and attentive caution.
And that's part of why I'm falling for him. He is the only piece of home—my old home—that I have left. My mother is too far out of reach, and even if Gale were to come back, he'd be angry, detached, with the resolve of a Capitol citizen much more than the boy who used to accompany me in the woods. My father is dead. Prim is dead. Every person who I grew up beside is gone; Peeta is all that remains to remind me that company did exist, and that our lives weren't always so consumed with isolation. And he reminds me of this every hour of every day, with his undying generosity, resolute selflessness, and steadfast compassion.
All I say is, "No, you've done nothing."
I can tell by his wounded rigidness that he doesn't believe me. But he knows there's nothing he can do—he can't entice answers from me when I've made my mind up to not vocalize them. So he helps me get out of bed, and even though my ankle aches slightly, I don't let my composure falter. He keeps a hand pressed delicately against the small of my back for support but doesn't touch me otherwise; and then we're at the door, and I'm slipping into my coat and my hunting boots. He stands there, too afraid to look at me, his entire confidence deflated. I hate that I'm doing this to him… and then I remember that I can't love him. I won't allow myself to sympathize so effusively.
He bids me goodbye and I toss it back at him, my tone as cold as the air behind the door. I don't hug him like usual when I go.
Upon my entrance, my own house is biting in its pale gloom. The air is stagnant, uninviting. I collapse onto the sofa to give my ankle a break, reminding myself over and over again that this is my home, even though it feels as if no one's lived in it for centuries.
I try and carry out daily actions to pass the time, although I don't exactly know what I'm supposed to do now. I dust things off, clean surfaces. In attempt to make this place seem more welcoming and lived-in, I light a fire, but all it does is remind me of beside how many fires I curled up with Peeta. It makes my forced warmth seem phony.
When dinnertime comes, Peeta shows up at my door and reminds me that he's supposed to feed me. By this point, I could probably throw something half-decent together to at least tide me over until the morning, but I don't protest. I have to remind myself that Peeta is my friend, not a completely distant enemy. I still need his care and I assume he at least partially needs mine for reassurance and balance.
And this is how the remainder of the week carries out.
In the mornings, I wake up to Peeta throwing breakfast together downstairs, and we eat collectively in silence with the occasional half-hearted question as small talk. He leaves soon after and I make myself busy around the home, infrequently going out to my woods to sit and think about how much I despise what our relationship has reduced to. But I don't do this often; the less I think, the better. At least, suppressing my thoughts seems to hurt less. For dinner, I return and reside in the dining room as I hear him working away in the kitchen, his actions concise and quick. Again, we'll eat together, but our conversations here are just as fragmented as in the morning. He parts momentarily after, and I'm left alone, as isolated as ever.
I wake up numerous times a night to violent nightmares, screaming and crying into the vacant darkness. I cry for Peeta and ache for his presence. It feels as if now we're not even friends. My condition is worsening, and I can see that his is as well; when he visits, dark shadows circle under tired eyes, hair ruffled, smile continually absent. But he doesn't plead for reconciliation, although I can see it in the way he looks at me when he does. I'm sure my eyes say the same. I want him back like he used to be, so that he can heal me in his hold. But I can't say anything. I can't do anything. I thought that by now, my affection for him would subside as a result the distance that I've enacted, but if anything it's rooted inside of me and sprouted a newfound resentment for my own actions and an even more unwavering longing. I can't win.
One evening, after he's already parted for the night, I feel a pull at every muscle in my body. I need to see him. I need to do something, execute any form of attempt to remind him that while I can't love him, I still need his company. I need him.
I trudge through newly-formed drifts of snow through the darkness, down the path and up the porch to his door. I knock twice, and when he doesn't respond, I jiggle at the knob to find the door unlocked. I let myself in.
Immediately after entrance, I see him, and my blood runs cold.
Peeta sits by the unlit fireplace, knees tucked into his chest, trembling very slightly. I can see it in the way that his muscles are stiffened and his breaths are shallow. His knuckles are taut and white as his arms wrap around himself, as if to hold him in one piece.
He's having one of his episodes.
Without thinking, I rush over to him, unafraid of what he'll do to me and much more concerned with what he'll do to himself. A brief image of the dream from a week ago, the dream that set this situation in motion, flashes through my head. I can't let anything like that happen to him. I press a palm onto his back, and he whimpers slightly, but doesn't relax.
"Peeta, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here."
"You want me to die," he murmurs back, eyes clenched shut, face twisted in agony.
I shake my head even though I know he can't see me. "No, Peeta. Not real. Not real."
"You don't want me anymore." His voice is softer this time, more pained. It pierces me right to my core.
I've been doing this to him, haven't I? My coolness towards him hasn't just been hurting me, but Peeta as well. He looks absolutely shattered in his seclusion, his skin pale, his gaze flat and vacuous. It's all because of my decision to avoid him.
"Peeta, I want you. I need you. Please, it's not real. It's not real, Peeta. I do want you."
Still, his body remains frigid.
"You don't love me."
I feel the pit of my stomach drop. What am I supposed to tell him? I can't tell him that I do because that would imply so much more… but I can't tell him that I don't, because it would be a lie.
I feel a hunger grip the inside of my chest, an intense ache spreading through my limbs. I don't think about what I'm doing as I move. Without consideration, my hands lift to his cheeks, forcing it towards me.
"Peeta." My tongue very gently forms around his name, and before I realize what I'm about to do, I lean in and press my lips impulsively into his.
