It isn't hard to fall in a routine once her mother decides that she's sufficiently healed. She has to wear a uniform, too, and it's impossible for her not to feel uncomfortable wearing a stupid skirt to school today. Looking at her sister and Madge, it's clear that these were designed with Merchant girls in mind, not girls like her.
"What do you think of all of this?" she whispers to Madge at lunch on her first day back.
"What? The new lunch program?" Madge asks, looking down at her tray. "It isn't that bad."
"It's just… It's all so different."
"You were out for a while," her friend says simply. "Things had only started that day. You'll get used to it."
Katniss nods, but she doesn't want to.
She doesn't see Gale other than through the window when he's on his way home from the mines. His brothers and sister walk to school with them in the morning, and Vick always makes a point to bring him up, whether it's about his job or how tired he is or how late he was out the night before.
She never knows what to say.
It's a month and a half that she goes without seeing Peeta. Her sister tries to insist over and over again that she go to his house, but Katniss refuses.
Eventually, he comes to hers.
"Hey, Katniss," he says when she opens the door, smiling.
"Hey," she says. "Prim! Grab that Morphling. I'm sorry, we replaced Madge's and then had a few whippings come in, so there's not a lot of it left."
"Oh, no, that's not why I'm here," he says. "I wanted you all to keep it, anyway. You have a lot more use for it than I do."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive," he answers. "I just wanted to come by and see if you wanted to come over tomorrow? I leave for the Tour next week, and I still haven't shown you where I keep my canvases."
"Okay," she says, earning herself one of those big grins from Peeta, like when she told him that he was doing a good job taking care of her, or when she said she enjoyed hanging out with him.
"Great. I was thinking maybe you could stay for dinner, if you wanted? We still haven't had the chance to hang out,"
"I know," she says. "Sorry."
"Don't be. Can you make it?"
She glances over at her sister, who raises her eyebrows, as if the answer is obvious.
"Sure. I can make it. I'll come over after school, just let me get changed."
"Great," he says, rocking back on his heels. "I'll see you then."
"See you then," she echoes.
He opens the door so quickly that she wonders if she's late, but he's happy enough to see her that she doesn't think she is.
"I brought cheese," she announces, pulling the little wrapped bundle her sister had insisted she bring out of her pocket and handing it to him.
"Thank you," he says, grinning as if the gift is something more valuable than cheese. She had told her sister that if he wanted cheese, he could buy all of the goat man's goats, but that didn't stop her from insisting. "I like your hair."
"Oh," she says, her hand going to the elaborate braid her sister had done.
Katniss hates it, but she knows better than to complain. Whatever her mother will try to turn this dinner into will be bad, and she could use Prim as insurance, so she's more than willing to try to get on her sister's good side. She had drawn the line at wearing a dress, though. The skirts that they have to wear every day of the week is bad enough, and she's not planning on wearing anything like it for fun anytime soon, that's for sure.
"Thanks. Prim did it."
He motions for her to come inside and she does, only enough for him to shut the door behind him.
"I'm glad you could make it," he says, smiling.
"I hope I'm not too late."
"Oh, no, definitely not," he says. "Come on, I'll give you the tour,"
She nods, and he leads her through the kitchen and into a sitting room that she's never been in before. It's at least twice as big as the bedroom she shares with her mother and sister, maybe even more. The staircase that she heard them going up and down is off towards the side wall.
There's a big dark brown couch in the middle of the room and a matching recliner beside it, both with pillows on the cushions. There's a big, light gray blanket only a shade or two darker than the walls draped over the back of the chair, and it looks soft. She wants to touch it, but she doesn't.
In front of the seats is a little table, and against the wall is a platform with a flat screened TV on it. She sees him out of the corner of her eye, watching her intently.
"It's nice," she says quietly, embarrassed at being caught staring.
There are five bedrooms that aren't being used, all of them huge and completely identical to each other. Each of them has a dresser and desk and closet doors, all of the walls light brown and all of the pillows and blankets on the huge bed bright white.
The last of the bedrooms is even bigger than the other few. The walls are painted white and there are three doors. His bed seems to be much, much bigger than the other ones, and the bedding is a dark brown.
"This one is mine," he announces. "I had some paint sent in a while back, I'm going to finish up when I get home."
"I thought it looked pretty finished."
"I'm not keeping it white. It's going to be an orange color once I'm finished."
She nods, trying to imagine it, but she can't. Orange? Really?
"I do my painting over here," he says, stepping out into the hallway and leading her to the next door over, pushing it open. "So, I'll have all the canvases that need dusting out next week before I leave, and the stuff you'll need to do it."
She nods, taking the room in. None of the canvases are painted on, and she feels almost disappointed. She had sort of hoped to see what sort of things he paints.
"Sound good?" he asks.
"Sure," she says.
"Great. So, I'll send a key home with you tonight. Do you have any questions?"
"I think I'm good," she says. "I come over, I let myself in, I dust the canvases, and I lock the door behind me when I leave. Am I missing anything?"
He smiles. "No, you're not."
"Then I'm good," she says.
"I already informed all of the Peacekeepers," he says. "So nobody should try to bother you, but if they do, I have a signed letter on the counter that explains everything."
She nods, impressed that he thought about it at all but also concerned that maybe he's never going to stop worrying about her.
He made a stew for dinner, but before he dishes it out, he cuts the cheese that she brought over, thanking her again.
"It's just cheese," she reminds him. "My sister made it."
"I haven't had goat cheese in years," he says.
"Really?" she asks.
"We make – made – an apple tart with it at the bakery."
"Sounds expensive," she says before she can stop herself. Money has been on her mind a lot lately, and she regrets bringing it up.
"Too expensive for my family to eat unless it's gone very stale. Of course, pretty much everything we eat – ate – was stale."
"I… didn't know," she says, and he gives her the smallest of smiles before he crosses over to the table and pulls out a chair for her.
He actually pushes it in after she sits down. She thinks she remembers her father doing this for her mother and wonders where he would have picked it up, because it certainly wasn't from watching his father and the witch.
"Do you miss it?" she asks. "The bakery. Not the stale food."
He sort of chuckles, filling a bowl for her and setting it in front of her along with a roll and some cheese on a little plate.
"Sort of. I think I miss it more than school. It wouldn't be so bad, but they're very shorthanded without me there, and they don't miss any opportunities to tell me."
She's not sure what to say.
"Did you know that it's illegal for me to work there?" he asks, filling his own bowl.
She shakes her head.
"It is. There's no way around it, either. I had Effie, my escort, check half a dozen times, but it's illegal. I can't just do it without pay, I can't make it at my house and then bring it over, it's completely against the law now that I'm a victor."
"I didn't know," she says, not sure where he's going with this.
"It isn't me being lazy, or selfish or entitled or any of that, it's just that I can't, because the thing is that they won't punish me. Not really. Maybe they take some of my wages from the next few checks, but that would be about as far as they would go, but my family could lose the bakery. Or worse."
"I didn't think you were being… Peeta, who calls you selfish?" she asks, but he doesn't have to answer, because she knows. "Oh, Peeta, I'm so sorry."
"It isn't your fault," he says quietly. "I don't know. I feel bad about leaving them shorthanded like that, but I won't let them let lose the bakery."
She nods, surprised that he trusts her with all of this. Then again, who would she tell? "Wait a minute, you said you asked Effie? You still talk to her?"
He chuckles, sounding almost embarrassed. "Yes. I guess an escort's job isn't ever really finished. She got my phone number somehow and she calls me every week."
"What do you talk about?" she asks. She's sure that she's stepping over some sort of line by asking, but the thought of Peeta having anything to talk to Effie trinket about at all is almost funny.
"Anything that's on her mind, really," he admits. "Just this last week, she gave me advice on which brand of dye I should use in case I get a dog that needs coloring."
She almost chokes on her drink of water trying not to laugh.
"One of her friends tried to match it to her wig and, apparently, it was terrible. One of the worst things she's seen in her entire life."
He says it like it's the most normal thing in the world, and she wonders how until he lets out a laugh that he's obviously been holding back. "No, I think she's just glad to have someone listening."
She shakes her head at him. Of course he'd be the one willing to listen.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing," she says. "You're just nice."
Now it's his turn to shake his head at her. "It's not like I'm not getting anything from it,"
"Oh?" she asks. "You like to talk about hair dye?"
"What? You don't think it would look good purple? I've been told it would work quite well with my skin tone."
She laughs embarrassingly loudly at this, and his smile is almost proud. Still, something about the comment demands an answer. "Keep it blonde."
"Okay," he says.
They eat in silence for a little while, but the question is still in the back of her mind. The meal is mostly finished when she can't handle it anymore.
"Seriously. What do you get from a conversation about hair dye?"
"It's… It's a big house. I mean, you saw. Eventually it gets to the point where silly, shallow conversations are better than none at all."
"I didn't realize things were so lonely around here," she says quietly. There's no way that her sister was right in hounding her to come over, and yet, here he is.
"I manage," he says. "I'm really glad you were able to make it, though. How's your back?"
"It's fine," she says. "Prim checks it every night and everything. How's your eye?"
"It's fine," he says.
"Really fine?" she asks. "Or fine the way it was when I was here?"
He smiles. "Really fine. It blackened a little bit, but it healed up pretty quickly."
"I'm sorry," she says, finishing the last bit of her stew.
"Don't be. Besides, it's not like it was my first black eye."
She can't help but to remember the one his mother gave him for giving her that bread. "Yeah," she says, tries to say, her voice is barely over a whisper. "I'm sorry about that, too."
"What?" Peeta asks.
She clears her throat, willing herself to get the words out. "I said I'm sorry about that, too."
His expression is guarded, careful. "About wrestling?"
"You didn't get black eyes from wrestling," she argues.
"Oh, please," he says, only sort of smiling. "It's hard to walk away from a match without a few bruises from the winner."
"You didn't lose."
He raises his eyebrows at her. "I wasn't that good, Katniss."
"I mean, you lost to your brother, during the championship, but… you didn't get black eyes from wrestling."
He shakes his head at her. She thinks that she's won, but of course, Peeta isn't letting her get off so easily.
"What are you talking about, then?" he asks slowly.
"You know what I'm talking about," she says, tearing her roll in half, more out of frustration than hunger. "It's been my fault twice, now."
"Are you talking about when we were kids?" he asks.
Her cheeks burn. "You had done me this huge kindness, and all you got from it was a black eye and I… I couldn't even say anything."
"You didn't have to," he reminds her quietly.
"Oh, come on," she says. "That wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for me,"
"You didn't do anything," he argues.
"But I-"
"It was my mother, and it was because of something I did. And then this time, it was Thread, and it was because of something I did. So please, please don't blame yourself."
"You're impossible," she tells him, stacking her plate and her bowl and heading for the sink. He's beside her almost instantly.
"I'm right," he argues, and she turns to look at him, completely exasperated.
"You just don't get it," she assures him, using the little silver sprayer to rinse her bowl out. "Can't you just let me finally apologize and get it over with?"
He groans, obviously frustrated. "Fine, Katniss. Apologize, if you want."
"Well, I don't see why you're being so weird about it,"
"Because it's like… It's like…" he struggles to find the right words. "It's like when my brother came to see me on the day of… when… and he said sorry, and it was pointless."
Peeta hasn't ever brought up the games before. She doesn't even know what to say, so she just sets the wet bowl down, staring at him. He grabs it, getting to work on drying it with a little towel.
"It wasn't his fault," Peeta says. "It's the same thing."
She doesn't even know how to respond.
"I'm sorry," Peeta says, and she can't help the bitter chuckle that comes out. "What?"
"Now you're sorry? It hardly seems fair."
He sort of smiles at this, taking the plate from her hand and rinsing it. "You've got me there."
"It's just… I still don't get it," she says, knowing that she should just give up. "I could get you in trouble over and over again you wouldn't even mind."
He reaches out, brushing a piece of the hair that fell out of her braid behind her ear. A shiver runs through her, and she's confused, because she certainly didn't have this reaction when he touched her hair before. His hand runs down the length of her braid, but he doesn't say anything.
"Why is that?" she asks, ready for some sort of an answer. "Maybe you're just crazy."
"Maybe you're worth it," he counters, a bit of a smile playing on his lips.
"I'm really not," she says.
"You're the impossible one," he murmurs. His hand is still on her braid, just touching it, playing with it. She's not even entirely sure what she's doing when she takes a step closer to him.
His head tilts down towards hers, their foreheads resting together, and she has no idea what it is inside of her screaming for her to kiss him, but she does it.
He doesn't mind. In fact, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her in more tightly. Her arms wind around his neck, holding him in place, but she doesn't think that he would move.
"Katniss," he whispers when they pull away for air, still holding onto her.
She steps away. This can't happen. Peeta can't just kiss her. Not when his girl, whoever she is, is waiting. Not when she's a rebound at best. No, this can't happen.
"I… I'm…" Peeta stammers, looking at her, and she opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to think of something.
"I should go."
"No!" he says, obviously having found his words.
"I have to. I'll… I'll still dust your canvases."
"Katniss, don't go," he begs.
"I have to. Your girl…" she trails off, sprinting for the door.
"Kat-" the door slams between them, and she runs until her lungs ache. He doesn't follow her. It isn't until she's at home, hands rested on her knees as she gasps for air, that she realizes that she just had her first kiss. With Peeta Mellark.
Author's note:
Please don't kill me. Also, as an important note, there will be an update next Friday, and then I'll be taking a month off from this fic to participate in National Novel Writing Month.
