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I do not own the Hunger Games.
The next morning he isn't angry or even upset with her. He is distant, his voice as hollow as it was when he realized she'd been lying during the first Games. She remembers the panic it filled her with then, feels a familiar panic rising now, but she refuses to succumb to it. She does not need him.
He's laid out muffins and buns and cups of coffee on the table. He's clearly been up for a while. She sits, thanking him genuinely, but he just nods, saying nothing. She hates his distance but she knows it's exactly what she wants, exactly what she'd been hoping to achieve when she walked away last night.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks, his voice carefully rid of emotion. She stares at him. Their rooms are right beside each other and she woke herself up at least five times. He must have heard her screaming. He knows exactly how she slept.
"I slept great," she tells him as sarcastically as she can, barely refraining from getting some liquor for her coffee. What the hell is wrong with him?
"How did you sleep, Peeta?" she asks, hoping if she says his name with that poisonous anger in her voice enough times he won't light up when she says it anymore. He sighs. She realizes, as she's waiting for him to answer, that she didn't hear him scream last night. Not even once.
"I had an episode," he says, quietly. She stares at him. He almost never has episodes at night and if he does, she wakes up before he has them. Maybe she has a sense about it, or maybe it's that he's so damn loud walking around, or maybe they are just tied together too tightly, but whatever it is, she can see in his eyes it's the first one he's had without her in at least a month.
"You had one last night? While I was sleeping?" He shrugs, nods his head.
"I think you were sleeping," he tells her. "I could hear you screaming, I think you were having a nightmare but maybe it wasn't real. I don't know."
She's upset, hurt that he didn't come to her afterwards, but why the hell would he after how she treated him? She's ashamed, humiliated by how awful she was. Why couldn't she let him down gently, just this once? Why does she keep doing this to him?
"I didn't tell you so you'd feel guilty, so you can wipe that look off your face," he tells her. "I told you because I need your help."
She nods. He needs her to pull him out of them. Except…he doesn't, because he's here, perfectly coherent, even made breakfast, so that's not it. What does he need her help with?
He puts his hand on the table and she gasps. His hand and half his forearm are covered in blood and there's a huge piece of glass sticking out of his palm. How the hell did he make coffee like this? With one hand, the whole time? God, he must really love her.
"What did you do?" she demands, not touching him yet. He sighs.
"I think I put my fist through a window. I don't know. I don't remember." He's upset, she can see, probably more from the not remembering than the pain itself.
"You can take it out, right?" he asks, looking at her evenly. He's willing her not to freak out, to keep it together. She, again, has the feeling that he's the stronger one, before she pulls herself together.
"Of course," she assures him. "Hang on."
She grabs bandages and alcohol to clean the cut with and sits at the table, taking his hand in hers. The last time they held hands was when he painted Annie and Finnick, and she remembers feeling so attracted to him then. Now she's fighting back sobs, because holding hands like this is not what she wants, his hand bloodied, her hand shaking. She should've been there. She's the one who made this happen.
"I'm sorry about the window," he tells her, and she shakes her head.
"It doesn't matter," she assures him. "Take a deep breath." He gasps as she pulls the glass out and the cut starts to bleed even more. It's deep, goes at least halfway through his hand, maybe more.
"How the hell did this happen?" she wonders aloud. "It looks like someone shoved it in there." He sighs, pained.
"I think I did," he admits. "I mean, how else would it get in there? I think…I think I was remembering something awful, and…I don't know. But it brought me out of it. I remember everything after that."
She stares at him, shocked, disturbed by how unbearable this is. How much more pain could he possibly need to be in? She hates herself in this moment; because she wasn't there for him, because she set him off, upset him more than his painting of Snow. And he had to stab himself to regain sanity because she can't seem to protect him, can't ever seem to clean up the messes she makes. She brought up the interview and smashing his hand in the urn last night. This is her fault. The least she could do if she's going to set him off is take care of him afterwards. She should've been there, to let him ask questions, touch her, breathe her in…
"Wait a minute," she says aloud, staring at him, trying to get a clear picture. "So, you're suggesting that the only things that bring you out of your episodes are extreme pain…and me?"
He rolls his eyes at her, and for a second she feels shameful at how selfish she is. This is about him, not her. But then she shrugs it away. Selfishness is vital to surviving alone.
"That's what you're saying, isn't it?" she demands, holding the cloth to the gaping hole in his hand."You're having them while I'm still here because if it's a toss-up between getting stabbed in the hand and—oh, shit," she mutters, as she realizes how fast he's bleeding. She's going to have to stitch him up, there's nothing else for it.
"Hang on," she tells him, getting the needle and thread her mother left here. She isn't sure she's sane enough or stable enough to do this, but she is sure that she has no choice. He looks at her, wincing already, and takes a shot of the liquor. She can't say she blames him.
"I need to clean this," she tells him, dabbing some liquor on a cloth.
"Talk?" he asks; it comes out as begging. "Tell me a story." She glares at him.
"How about you answer my questions?" she demands, but he cries out in pain when she begins cleaning the cut, so he's clearly not in any shape to talk. He's shaking when she's finished and has gulped a lot of liquor, considering it can't even be noon yet. She raises her eyebrows at him disapprovingly, aware she's being a bitch, but unable to stop. She is devastated by what he won't say: that she is the embodiment of his worst pain.
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