Thanks to TiffOdair for keeping up with me. She is the best Beta ever!
This was a strange chapter to write – I meant to write one thing and something different emerged. Plus, it could have been two chapters but it needed to stay together.
Many of you are following my story pretty consistently. You cannot imagine how grateful I am to you for your support and reviews.
HG Fanfic Rec: Cruel Summer and Shades of Grey – by TwilightCakes; two Alternate Universe stories that place Peeta and Katniss in Camp Panem and then follows them on to college. It is so much fun to read – it's nice to see them young and silly.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the Cheese Bun recipe either.
Chapter 7 – Mazes
It was late morning when I opened my eyes. I was momentarily confused by the change in décor, the arm flung over my waist, a heavy leg pinning mine onto the bed. When it dawned on me that I was with Peeta in his room, I felt a warm, fluttery feeling spread inside my stomach, flushing my skin and causing my heart to race. I felt constrained but did not dare move for fear of waking him. I ignored the heaviness and focused on his regular breathing near me, his chest moving rhythmically against my back. I could also feel the sign of something hard and insistent pressing against my thigh. For a moment, I was shocked by it but remembered many times on the train when I felt the evidence of his nocturnal arousals. Usually, I simply shifted my body away but today I was in a state of such perfect relaxation, I chose to ignore it. I did not want the feeling of peace to end.
Several minutes passed before I felt him move behind me. His breathing became shorter and the arm that held me contracted, pulling me closer into the warmth of his broad chest. The hardness against my thigh twitched, causing a small gasp to escape my lips, a tingling rush in the deepest part of my abdomen. I was thankful he could not see my face as I was flushed with embarrassment and heat. A slight shift of his hips removed the distraction and I was able to relax again, though its imprint lingered like a brand on my thigh. A shag of blond hair fell across my cheek as he pulled his head close to mine and kissed me on my shoulder, a moan escaping his lips.
"Hey." I whispered, bringing my arm up to grasp his ear gently between my finger and forefinger, rubbing the impossibly soft skin of his lobe, tracing the hard ridge of the cartilage. It was a strange impulse that nonetheless brought me great pleasure.
Peeta moaned again in response, burying his nose in my hair.
I simply chuckled and lay with him like this for several minutes. Almost when I was certain he had fallen back to sleep, he gently turned me to face him, his hands running along my waist and hip.
"I haven't slept like that in forever." He whispered, his hands still on my waist, making distracting patterns with the tips of his fingers. I felt like a bow being strung tighter and tighter.
"Me neither." I barely responded, his fingers sending all coherent thoughts to the winds.
Peeta paused, now twirling my hair around his finger.
"We can do it again…tonight…" I stammered.
His eyes brightened. "I'd like that. I've missed sleeping with you. It made the nightmares more bearable."
"I know." I suddenly felt unbearably shy with him, an achy need befuddling my brain.
"Have you been to town yet?" Peeta asked, changing the subject.
"No." I said nervously. I'm just not up to…all of that…"
"It's okay. I wanted to walk to the station to pick up the Capitol shipment. I thought you would like to walk with me."
I felt my heart race. I would do anything for him but I didn't think I was up to the stares of people in town. "Peeta, please, I'm sorry, I just…I can't…" I buried my head in his chest.
"It's okay. I'll go this afternoon. Haymitch will keep me company. He has to restock, you know."
"So, is Haymitch the alternative to me?" I teased.
"There is no alternative to you." Peeta said seriously.
In response, I pulled him to me and placed small kisses along his jawline. It no longer embarrassed me when he said things like that to me. There was a new feeling in my chest, making it lurch, not in pain but expectation. I would never be able to say things the way Peeta did but I couldn't imagine anyone ever felt as much as I was feeling at the moment. I was a balloon ready to burst.
XXXXX
That very afternoon, I made good on my promise. Before Peeta left for the station, he dialed the number on the phone in his study and held the phone out to me to make sure I actually made the call. When Dr. Aurelius answered the phone, I felt the words stick. I made nothing more than a croaking sound before finally saying "Dr. Aurelius, this is Katniss Everdeen." Satisfied, Peeta discretely walked out of the study and closed the door behind him.
After what could only be described as a shocked pause, Dr. Aurelius began to speak. "Katniss! I thought I would have to travel to District 12 to speak to you again."
"Well, Peeta can be pretty persistent when he wants to be." I responded, slightly less nervous as his voice conveyed the proper concern without reprimanding.
"It was good of him to do that. Your treatments were rather unproductive when you were here."
"Yes, I vegetated and you napped." I said dryly.
Dr. Aurelius laughed. "Yes, I got much needed rest. You see, you were not ready to speak and I was certainly not going to force you. I am not in the habit of mortifying my patients. Anyway, enough about me. Give me a little context. How was your return?"
I took a deep breath and told him about my deep depression, my retreat from the world – not eating, moving or bathing for two months. Before Peeta returned to District 12, I had not called my mother, had not left my sofa. At first, I was shy about telling him these things, as if I was exposing myself to his ridicule for my terrible passivity. But being a witness to myself gave me a vague sense of power. I had gone through it all, I could do this also. I cried at times, while he soothed me, all the time taking notes and encouraging me gently when the horrible nightmares would not make it out passed my voice box. I apologized for the tears but Dr. Aurelius absolved me of my weakness, listening to whatever I offered. I told him about Peeta's flashback, my relapse into isolation. Giving voice to the strangeness of our lives freed me and though I was drained, I was a little lighter when I ran out of words and lapsed into silence.
"Katniss, I appreciate your openness. I know this cannot have been easy for you. These thoughts that take over you and send you into depression can be looked at, anticipated and waylaid so that you are not disabled by their presence. You cannot simply stop feeling sadness that your sister suffered a violent death or that you were abandoned by your mother in your direst time of need. This is not healthy. Grief must take its course and we must respect the power of that force in our lives. It is a natural consequence of love." Dr. Aurelius paused. "But grief coupled with guilt leads to self-hatred which is the root of depression – anger turned inward. This is true, whether the guilt derives from a sense of responsibility for the deaths of those we mourn or whether it is guilt because of simply surviving when others have not. Though, I should acknowledge, in yours and Peeta's case, survival was hard earned."
"With your permission, I would like to use a very old therapy, invented in the time before the Dark Days and proven to have a significantly positive impact on patients using this treatment. It is called Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy. Peeta has undergone a version of this therapy almost since his time in District 13, though his involves modifications specific to his unique condition. I will send a copy of a book that summarizes the major research and approaches to this therapy. It simply posits that depression is caused by a failure to think well and that much of this thinking is unconscious and a function of our life experiences. It can be very empowering. You have used a few of the techniques without realizing it – distracting yourself, changing your though process to shift attention away from painful thoughts, engaging in positive activity and surrounding yourself with people who are productive and positive. We will work on your thinking to create positive outcomes when such thoughts as guilt and self-hatred appear. Tell me, Katniss. What is your usual routine?"
I thought for a moment and described a typical day – having breakfast with Peeta and Greasy Sae, working on Peeta's garden, having lunch with Peeta and sometimes Haymitch, sometimes going our separate ways when he goes to town while I return to my house and putter around or nap. Then I have dinner with Peeta and Greasy Sae and then I watch a bit of TV and go to bed.
"How many of these things were things you did before your reaping?" asked Dr. Aurelius.
"We never kept a garden. My father and I foraged when we went hunting. When my father died, I did all of the hunting and foraging. I only watched TV when it was required." I paused. "Not much, actually."
"I understand you are quite the hunter and archer. Do you not miss these things?"
I pondered this. "I have gone sometimes but…"I stammered.
"Would you be avoiding hunting?" he asked.
I was absolutely avoiding hunting. I went sometimes, when Peeta asked for squirrel. It used to calm me but now it just reminds me of…
"Gale." I said quietly. "It reminds me of Gale."
"I see," the doctor paused. "Gale was your hunting partner, as I recall. Do you love hunting?"
"I do. Not just hunting – being in the woods, walking, climbing trees." I was becoming nostalgic.
"Would you say it was a major part of your identity before the reaping?"
"Yes."
"Well, Katniss, I will now assign you a bit of homework. I want you to go hunting. Be sure to take a notebook with you. Concentrate on what you are thinking and feeling. Do not try to avoid anything you are feeling. If you need to cry or shout or simply be, do so. But be very aware of your thinking so that you can document it. If you can go more than once, that would be better. I would like to speak to you again in one week to go over your notes. I will send you a journal together with the book but for now, any kind of paper or book will do. How does that sound to you? "
"Doable, "I said.
"Well, then, Katniss, until next we speak. I will await your call."
I put down the receiver and sat quietly for several minutes. My face was still puffy; my cheeks overly warm from crying. I felt drained and a sudden drowsiness overcame me. I moved as if through molasses to Peeta's sofa and promptly lay down, not trusting my legs to move up the stairs. I hardly ever said Prim's name yet today I had opened the deep caverns of my grief to the easy doctor. I vaguely remembered him as being a plain sort of gentleman, with a high forehead, eyes that were spread wide on his face, his long nose serving as perpetual perch to round wire-framed glasses. He looked to be about 50 with a receding hairline of straight, dark hair but did not show the excesses of the Capitol's obsession with body modification, instead being a type one could easily find in any place.
I thought back to the visits he paid to me after Prim's death, his chin resting on his chests, his soft snores filling the room while I sat, unseeing and unhearing. I felt my vision swim, a sweet blackness filling the edges of my mind's eye. In moments, I was releasing my own sounds of slumber into the air.
XXXXX
I woke to sound of Haymitch's voice hurtling through the window, a string of furious expletives frothing the air, his rage directed at the geese that had escaped the rickety fence for the umpteenth time. I lay still for a moment longer to gather my consciousness around me before carefully sitting up. I rubbed my hand over my face to rid it of the shadow of sleep. Hearing noises in the kitchen, I stood up, yawning as I walked to find Peeta unpacking a box of flour and other baking ingredients. There was a block of white cheese on the counter, still wrapped in the cheese cloth, so lovely and moist in the afternoon light. Even without wanting too, I was as quiet as a shadow. Peeta was not aware of me until I stood next to him and leaned my head on his arm. He started but then relaxed immediately when he saw me.
"Sleepyhead." He said, good-naturedly.
"Hmm, hmm." I mumbled.
"Always a woman of many words." He chuckled.
"That's me." I sighed as the last of my sleep fled and I became more alert. "Let me help you."
We unpacked his supplies and put them away in the different cupboards of his kitchen. Compared to mine, Peeta's kitchen looked like a professional operation – pots of varying utility, even a few whose purpose I did not recognize. His pantry had flour and other delicacies such as chocolate, flavored chips, tubes of coloring and gelatins. He had cake molds, muffin pans, cookie sheets, tongs and spatulas in several styles. We continued to receive our winnings as Victors of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, thankfully the last time there were Games for which a winner had been named, the Quarter Quell ending with the birth of the Mockingjay Revolution. It was clear how Peeta used his winnings. My only expense was Greasy Sae as I could not envision any use for that money at this point in my life.
My eyes kept returning to the cheese and I suddenly felt the emptiness in my stomach. I had eaten only once today at midday because we had woken so late and that was just a slice of yesterday's loaf with the squirrel soup Haymitch had put together for us. I reached for a knife and sliced a bit of bread, cutting a slab of the cheese and placing it on top. Bringing the treat to my lips, I tasted it and involuntarily moaned in delight at the cool, rich flavor of the cheese. I looked up and saw Peeta watching me, a small smile betraying the intensity in his eyes. Suddenly self-conscious, I swallowed the bite and asked him, "Want a piece?"
He walked over and gently took the wrist of the hand holding the bread. "Just a taste."
He brought my hand up to his mouth and bit a small piece of the bread, his eyes never leaving me. "It's good" he said around the bite, his face so close I could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke. He seemed to squeeze my wrist briefly, the action scattering my focus.
I simply nodded. I didn't know why but I felt my chest clench, a flush racing up to the tips of the fingers that held the bread. He released my wrist and suddenly I became riveted by the way the muscles in his jaw rippled as he chewed. He turned towards the block of cheese. "Guess what I am making with this?"
I snapped out of my haze and responded, perhaps too harshly, "What?"
"Well, you did catch squirrel…"
I started with excitement, repressing the urge to clap my hands like a child. "Cheese buns?"
"A deal's a deal. Want to help me?"
"Yes! Will you use all the cheese?" I asked slyly. I could put that cheese on everything.
Knowingly, he responded "I'll set some aside for you."
"Okay." With my life experience, I never underestimated the value of food of any kind and good food less so.
Peeta began working and I tried to help him, fetching things as he asked for them. Most of the time, though, I stayed out of his way as he made magic happen. I could cook, mostly preparing game or greens and vegetables into stews – poor food that I had to stretch, less concerned with taste than with sustenance. But watching Peeta create the dough, pouring in the flour and sugar slowly into the bowl, and carefully adding the mixture of warm water and yeast was to feel my inferiority. I set the oven to pre-heat and chunked the cheese, allowing the salty moisture to run along the grooves of the cutting board, sneaking a taste when I was sure he was not looking. His large hands rounded over the dough, as he plunged his thick fingers into the tender yet pliant mass. I became enthralled by the motion of his hands as he worked the quivering dough, folding it over, pressing down firmly enough to coax the desired mold without crushing it. His forearms rippled as he pressed down over and over, the dough bulging upwards on each side of his hands, rolling it into itself and working it again until he had brought it to the shape that he wanted. When he had caressed the shape of a smooth round ball out of the once disparate collection of wet and dry ingredients, pinching the top of it to a rigid point, he placed the mass tenderly into the bowl and covered it with a cloth to let it rest near the stove. He turned the timer on for 30 minutes to let the dough rise properly.
I had the brief flash that it was me he was working in that way and felt my knees buckle.
"I hope there is enough cheese left for the dough." He teased, wiping his hands on his apron.
I was swallowed hard. "I left most of it." I said sheepishly, still a bit delirious over the dough. What was wrong with me?
"Don't worry, I ordered extra cheese." He smiled. "We have to wait for the dough to rise." He paused for a moment as if considering his question. "How was your call to Dr. Aurelius?"
This sobered me right away. I considered for a moment. I had shared everything that I could with him. It had been a dense conversation so I focused on the outcome. "It went better than I thought it would. I am going hunting tomorrow."
Peeta seemed puzzled. "How are those two things related?"
"Dr. Aurelius wants me to try to do the things I used to love before the reaping. So I've been assigned to go hunting for homework."
"Don't you still love hunting?" Peeta's brows were furrowed with confusion.
How to explain this to him? That outside the time I spent with him, not much had any meaning? Some things like going to town were too much for my nerves and others, like hunting, were just too painful.
"Not everything makes me as happy as it used to, Peeta. I think that is what Dr. Aurelius is trying to get me back to. I feel like some days, it is not even worth it to get out of bed. It all seems meaningless sometimes." My voice trailed off at the end.
Peeta's face was sad at my words. He pulled me into a hug and we held onto each other for a long moment. He spoke into my hair. "I usually feel like that after a flashback. I'm empty, like I will never be happy again. When this happens, I just think something better is always waiting for me, you know? When I think of my parents, my brothers, I imagine something has to come out of all this pain. There has to be a meaning if only it's the meaning I give it."
I hug him close to me, overwhelmed with admiration, hope, and melancholy, all wrapped together in a cacophony of feelings. "This," I squeeze him for emphasis, "has meaning for me. You make me want to be whole." I whispered against his chest.
He pulled back only just, tilting my chin up to look him. His eyes were glassy, the look he gets when he is moved by something. I knew what would come next and my breath hitched in my throat. He ran his thumb over my lips, first across, then down, just lingering over my bottom lip, as if testing it. His face closed the distance between us and his mouth brushed mine gently. My lips opened slightly and he pulled my upper lip gently between his, his tongue darting out to taste me and run along the top. The touch was delicate but the sensation of his tongue made a bolt of electricity shoot through me. He did the same with my bottom lip, trapping it gently between his teeth before tugging it. My tongue darted out to meet his and soon our lips were together, our tongues moving with each other. His lips were so unbearably warm, the taste of his mouth made mine water with the desire for more. I had kissed Peeta a thousand times during the Victory Tour but there were a few kisses that stood out as our own – the cave, the beach, last night and this delicious dance that we danced here, in his kitchen. These kisses belonged entirely to us and they were made sacred by the things we created together, whether it was an alliance for life and death or simply baking together. When the timer for the dough went off, my lips were swollen from kissing him, and yet I was hardly sated.
Peeta's eyes smoldered, his hand running along my cheek. He placed a peck on my nose and let me go. Breathing deeply, he directed his attention to dividing the dough into balls, showing me how he stuffed the dough with cheese. I was still shaky from our shared kiss but the work slowly had a calming effect on me. We spread them over a baking sheet, brushing them with a mixture of oil, garlic and fresh parsley from the garden before putting them in the oven. As they baked, we cleaned the kitchen, conversing lightly about the salads and greens that were ready to be picked. Peeta had already studied a system for preserving the vegetables for the winter. He had a strainer with the arugula that he had already rinsed. I was fascinated by the leaves, the deep green color and the veins that ended in pointy tips.
We set the table together. In addition to the cheese buns and salad was yesterday's stew. I would never learn to throw away good food. As I set the last of the glasses, Peeta prepared a generous portion for Haymitch and took it to him. When he returned, I was already seated with half of a cheese bun already in my mouth. He looked in askance at the bread. I just shrugged, finding it remarkable that he could leave a plate full of the wonderful things and not expect them to become my victims.
There was nothing on the table that I did not like. Haymitch prepared a more than respectable squirrel stew. The cheese buns would not last through the night, of that I was sure. But the arugula was something so special I thought I would not leave any for Peeta.
"This is amazing." I said between mouthfuls.
"It's bitter but the lemon and salt compliment the flavor" said Peeta, savoring the crispy green.
When our meal ended, I was so full that I thought my belly would pop. I was so grateful for the cheese buns but also for the wherewithal Peeta had to find this occupation or any for that matter while he was undergoing treatment in the Capitol. It was another testament to his resilience and without giving him any explanation I surprised him with a long kiss on the lips. Peeta seemed to glow from the spontaneous affection.
After cleaning the kitchen, I had an urge to get outside. Hand in hand, we decided to walk as far as the tree-line of the woods and around the green. I had a thought that stopped me suddenly.
"Peeta, we should add your plants to our family's plant book. We haven't added anything to it in a long time." It made perfect sense to me.
Peeta looked at me and smiled. "That's true. Where do you have it?"
"In my study."
"We should work on it right away. Once the cold weather arrives and the garden is picked, it will be hard to find models for the drawings."
The thought of the weather made me realize that it had already been five months since Peeta's return to District 12, seven months since I returned, and almost a year since Prim died.
I couldn't believe time had raced away so quickly. This also meant…
"Peeta." I whispered. "The Reaping. When is it?"
He looked at me warily. "Midsummer will be here in two weeks…" his voice trailed off.
I covered my mouth with my hand. I shivered with the thought of it, even though it would not be the same as other years. There was no Reaping per se anymore but the date stood like an ugly sore in the middle of our summer and even if nothing happened on that day, it was the day everything had happened. The day we lost Gale, Prim, Peeta's family, District 12, ourselves. It was the day the world had started to burn. Peeta must have understood my agitation, his hand twitching in mine. The urge to run back to my room was so strong I shook with the effort to stay in this spot. I squeezed Peeta's hand, as much to steady him as myself.
"Peeta, that day will never be good for us."
Peeta's vision became unfocused and turned in the direction of the town center. I saw the shadows of his family pass over his face, his childhood, untold memories that he had never had a chance to share with me, that perhaps he no longer owned himself. Remembering what we had lost was a crippling ache in his heart as much as my own. I wrapped my arm around his waist, feeling him droop onto my shoulder, a tremor announcing his grief to those who had the eyes to see.
Night had fallen by the time we made it back to his house. Quietly, we washed up and readied ourselves for bed but I was the hunter now, watching a prey who did not understand he was being watched. I watched his fingers twitch as he removed his prosthetic, how he compulsively ran his hands through his hair, eyes fixated on different points in space though there was nothing of consequence to look at. I pulled him down to lay next to me, cradling his head on my shoulder. When his shivering became more pronounced, I kissed him fully in the mouth, willing him to stay with me. He responded with uneven ferocity, at moments taking my mouth with bruising force, the next moment passive and unsure of himself. His shaking slowed and he whimpered into my mouth.
That night, there was no stopping them – the voices of the dead screeching in rage at the accident of our survival, clawing at us through the night. I watched Peeta with a helpless desperation, slowly losing his battle with himself. I sat up to look into his eyes and watched the blue irises being swallowed up by the unnaturally dilated pupils, the boy with the bread sinking deeper and deeper away from me until the only thing I held in my arms was a trembling mass of grief and madness. He began to mumble things I would never understand, hitting the sides of his head with his fists. I seemed to feel the blows as if I were receiving each one. He sat at the edge of his bed, shaking and rocking and I sat myself behind him, my knees on either side of him, hugging him hard, holding his hands down, and murmuring into his ear, telling him of all the beautiful things he represented to me – my tether to life, the shocking indestructability of his goodness.
And a whisper that I was too cowardly to give voice to, even to myself, in our waking lives – that I loved him, had loved him before I knew that I loved him. I sang to him the songs of love that my father offered to my mother in the days when the world inside our tiny home made sense. I sang to him the songs my father sung to me in the intimate solitude of our woods. He would not recall these things, though one day, he would surely hear them, as sure as I lived. But tonight, these words were for my lost boy so that he, too, would find the skein that would lead him through his darkness and back to the surface again.
When he finally stilled, I lay him down, wiping the moisture of sweat and tears from his face with a wet cloth. He tried to speak to me, surely to apologize but I kissed him again, deeply, my hands hold each side of his face. I cradled myself in the space next to him as his exhaustion made him limp, clinging to him in a surreal state of wakeful sleep, complete with the specters of death and blood. It was not until light broke over the top of the trees that I fell into a fitful, defeated sleep.
I want to thank the reviewer, n, for giving me the feedback that lead to the end of this chapter.
Thank you all for reviewing, especially Guest Reviewers, since I cannot respond to you directly.
PS: There are several clues in Mockingjay that helped with the timeline Katniss mentions above. I am fascinated with the idea that the Reaping took place every year during the Summer Solstice (Midsummer – June 21st). If you are interested, message me and I will share what I think is the timeline for the third book.
