Here's another chapter! I hope you enjoy, and REMEMBER to comment if you enjoyed it. Also if you didn't enjoy it, because I'm eager for criticism.
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Best wishes,
Apromptdisregarded.
We ate everything.
I'm not even sure how we manage it. Eventually, Peeta's spoon makes a habit of traveling from the bowl to my mouth (as well as his; we've made no effort to use separate utensils), and before long every platter has been scraped to its edges. And anyway, everything is so utterly fantastic, so diverse in flavors and consistencies, that I feel shameful to waste anything.
"Honestly, Peeta, you've probably used half of the pantry to make this; We'll starve before this storm levels out."
On normal days, I would never mention the thought of starvation in such a casual way, as accustomed to it as I am. But my mind seems fuzzy with food, stuffed to my skin with rolls, and birds dripping in orange sauce, and soups (oh, and the chocolate, I had nearly forgotten). The haziness that the feeling of full brings forces me to watch my tongue.
"Well, you seemed plenty happy while you were eating it," Peeta smirks.
"That's because it was delicious." I counter matter-a-factly.
"Well, then, I don't see the problem. If it makes you content, I would gladly roast myself on a spit and serve my body to you whole," Peeta retortes with a flirtatious edge to his voice.
The trouble is, as disgusting as this sounds, he probably would.
And I would probably do the same.
"Yeah, sure," I respond coolly, with the slightest hint of sarcasm. "And I'm confident you'll remain content even when you have to clean up this whole mess, seeing as I can't leave my current position." my eyes gesture to the various stained plates littering the coffee table.
Suddenly, Peeta jumps up, and assumes a straight-backed position, with his arms clamped at his sides. I'm confused for a moment, worried that he might be in the midst of an episode, until he raises his hand to his forehead in a mock salute.
"Sir yes Sir! Mrs. Mellark, Sir! I will wash these dishes until they are spotless, Sir!" He yells in joking seriousness.
Just as he's picking up the platters (maintaining a straight-back, no less, and looking more like a right angle than a person) I burst out laughing, but it turns to a wince; the compression of air in my diaphragm placing stress on my abdomen stitches.
His facade is gone for a moment, and the caring Peeta has returned immediately. "What's wrong?" he asks urgently, easing my head back to the pillow, and inspecting my wounds.
I shake my head; the moment of pain having passed. "It's alright now."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. Now get back to work, soldier Peeta." I smile.
He lifts the edges of his mouth. "Yes Mrs. Mellark! Right on it!" he bursts, and proceeds to march into the kitchen with an informal beat, all the while managing about 12 different soiled plates in his arms.
I try not to stare at his rear-end while he walks away.
An hour later, we're back in our previous position.
My head rests cradled in Peeta's lap, supported by the warmth of his thighs, while his feet are elevated and crossed on the now-spotless coffee table. The fireplace has been lit (after Peeta's ten unsuccessful attempts), and burns in a slow, churning way, while the room reflects its orange haze and warmth. With full bellies, and the heat working therapeutically on both of our joints, we're far too exhausted to move.
Peeta has been reading something aloud to me; it's a book, a play, really, about two teenagers in a place called Italy who fall in love. Only, they live in feuding households, and their romance is "forbidden." I've never read it, but Peeta tells me that it's a "classic." I enjoy the story enough; the only trouble is that it's terribly difficult to understand the language.
Tonight, though, I can't seem to focus on Peeta's words. I've been staring at the fireplace, but my eyes have been shifting, ever so slowly, to the black television screen. Peeta's voice drones on, but I'm thinking of something else. With the feeling of hunger having freed up ample space in my brain, I've found my mind drifting into other topics unconsciously. Some less welcome than others.
I can't stop thinking about the "We Remember" broadcast.
It's a topic that's been on my mind for a while now, even since the early days following the accident. Caught in the darkest regions of fever and illness, unable to differentiate illusion from reality, I could feel myself considering what I saw on that screen so many nights ago. Obviously the thought of it continues to terrify me, but there's more to my emotions than fear. The night the program aired, I was only afraid. That's why I ran to the woods. The Children of the Rebellion suffocated me. Now, though, I feel a dying need to understand it. I have to know what they said, about Prim, about me. About every child who died, or who lived through the war. My mind is clearer now than it has ever been, knowing all the tragedy it has seen. And I feel, deep down, that I desperately owe these children my attention.
No, that I want them to have it.
I remember when I was only 11, and Peeta preserved my life when he tossed me bread in rain. For a long time I could not recognize how pivotal a moment it was. I thought I owed him something, and it wasn't until perhaps the end of the war that I realized there was no debt to pay. The relationship between Peeta and I involves more than a mere exchange; we have connected to each other by our experiences, not by payments to one or the other. We are inseparable. We want to share our love.
These children are dead. I have no debts to pay to their corpses; not even Prim's. But I want to understand.
I need to.
So, without a moment's hesitation, I allow my thoughts to penetrate the air.
"I want to watch it."
Thanks for reading! and REMEMBER to send comments with advice, praise, or criticism!
Best Wishes,
Apromptdisregarded.
