A/N: I'm so sorry for the wait, which is why this chapter is unbeta'd. I hope my mistakes aren't too dreadful. Longer note at the bottom…see you there.
Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins is one hell of a story teller; I'm just freeloading.
Peeta had morphed into being a part of my everyday life so effortlessly. It was difficult seeing him so little the week the bakery opened, but we still had dinner together every evening. When did I become so dependent on Peeta that three days without him is torture?
I've had nightmares about living without Peeta, but that isn't the case currently. He's perfectly within my reach. Just down the road. All I have to do is swallow my pride, and approach him; apology on the tip of my tongue. I know I was wrong that night.
I snatched my bra off of the floor after the door slammed, and stalked upstairs. I changed clothes in a hurry, and climbed under the covers, still seething. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, but my body was too hyped up still for sleeping. I rolled to each side, and flopped over to my stomach, trying to get comfortable. I nearly beat the life out of my pillows punching them in my anger, and regret. Peeta and I had agreed to take things slowly. I knew I didn't want to move too fast physically, and yet I let myself get carried away. I had lost control, as Peeta had pointed out. And I knew the reason I'd been so eager wasn't merely just lust. I was searching for escape and when I found it, I was frantically trying to travel deeper and deeper into oblivion.
I barely slept that night. I skipped hunting the next morning. I stayed in bed all day, but Peeta never came to knock my door down. I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen to piece together something for dinner. I let a few silent tears fall while I sat at the small table eating alone. After washing the dishes, I stood in the living room staring at the radio. I contemplated carrying it upstairs for the night. Eventually, my anger won out and I left it on the table, as I ascended the stairs back to my room.
The following day I managed to make it out to the woods. I found that I didn't have the patience to wait for anything to cross my path, so I set traps and a few lines in the pond. I practiced throwing my knife while I waited. I started out hitting my target every time, but the more aggressive I became the worse my aim was. I ended up missing the tree completely on the last ten tosses, and had to search for my knife multiple times among the brush. I stayed out there longer than necessary, avoiding the empty house waiting for me. It hadn't rained yesterday and the garden showed signs of too much heat from the sun. When I finally went inside I showed signs of too much sun as well. I had removed my button up shirt in favor of the tank underneath, which left my shoulders and neck bare. They were pink and sensitive to the touch. I slathered on some of my leftover burn cream that I hadn't been using for a while now. It made lying down in bed easier, but sleep still didn't come quickly.
By the third day I still hadn't had any contact from Peeta. I was tired from my sleepless nights, but I implemented my old routines, and went through the day in a relatively peaceful fog. I hunted, I gathered, I tended the garden. I took care of laundry, and other house work I'd neglected recently. When I sat down to eat dinner, I wondered briefly whether or not Peeta was having as hard a time as I was.
Thoughts of Peeta throwing himself into his work, baking, painting, and thinking little of me, follow me up the stairs and into the bathroom. I decide on a cool shower before bed; the day was unseasonably hot. I resign myself to another lonely day tomorrow, and settle in to fall asleep.
Even though Gale and I looked upon the valley frequently from our perch in the forest, we never ventured downward. So it seems odd for me to be here at dawn. There are far fewer trees down here, and the fog is still rolling along the wet grass. The sky is clear, and there's a hint of yellow peaking over the tall hills. It's oddly warm for so early in the morning. I walk around slowly, enjoying the beautiful scene. My breath catches when I see blond hair just ahead of me, weaving through the scattered trees. I pick up the pace slightly, half excited and half afraid of whom this mysterious person is dressed in white. When I finally reach her, she's seated on a large rock near a tree with other smaller rocks scattered close by. I resist the urge to speak, choosing instead to merely sit down on the other end of the boulder. I look straight ahead and take a moment to compose myself before turning to face her.
I shift my body sideways completely, pulling my left leg up onto the rock. I just look at her for the longest time. She appears slightly older. Her face is thinner; more mature looking. Even though she's sitting, I can see that her frame looks more like mine. Our eyes are on the same level. I no longer look down on her like my little sister; she's my equal now. After I spend a few minutes studying her face, I scoot closer and reach out to lightly stroke her hair. She doesn't speak, but lets out a deep sigh instead. I move in behind her and comb through her fine hair with both hands. I separate all of it into three sections and begin braiding slowly. Her hair isn't quite as long as mine, so it doesn't take long. I pull a band off my wrist to tie at the end. I put the braid over her left shoulder and reposition myself so that I'm flush up against Prim's back. I rest my chin on her shoulder and wrap my arms around her waist. I feel her rest her head against mine, as she leans back into me slightly. We sit there forever it seems, watching the sun rise slowly from behind the hills.
I wake slowly, letting my eyes float open, and my mind focus on where I really am. I know I'm in my bed, but it felt so real to be walking in the valley and sitting with Prim on that rock.
Prim…she looked so perfect. I can still remember the way it felt to hold her, and I hug myself tightly, trying to hold on to the memory. I push back the blankets after a few more moments spent reflecting, and slide out of bed. I yawn and stretch, feeling rested.
Still feeling relatively calm from my dream, I take a risk and leave my room, treading barefoot down the hall to Prim's. I stare at the door, my hand hovering over the doorknob, waiting to turn it. I wiggle my fingers in anticipation, and then finally grab it tightly before turning slowly. The door opens smoothly. I can only just make out the shapes of the furniture, so I flip on the light. I'm not entirely sure what I expected to see, so it takes my breath away to see everything looking exactly the same as it did the last day she slept here.
My mother gave each of us a quilt that she had from her childhood, and had brought with her to the Seam after getting married. They aren't very large, which is why my blue and green one is currently folded on the back of the couch. But Prim's bed is smaller, and her white, pink and yellow quilt fits perfectly. She has two small pillows on the bed in addition to the one for sleeping. I sit on the edge and grab the one with her flower stitched all over it. I look down at the other. I know the words well, stitched so delicately by my mother's hand, but Prim understood them better than I ever have. I trace the letters with my finger.
We don't have to reap the fear they sow.
We interpreted the words differently. I used breaking the law and hunting to defy the capital, refusing to be frightened into submission. Prim on the other hand took a less aggressive path. Where she saw oppressed and anxious faces she worked her hardest to try and infuse joy into hearts as a quiet way to rebel. But she was young, and more easily disheartened. So my mother stitched this pillow for her birthday one year, hoping to bolster her courage. I had argued with her; we had had a rough winter, and were just getting back on our feet. I was reluctant to spend money on the fabric or have to trade meat for thread; even if it was for Prim. But she loved her gift. She would fall asleep with it most nights; her finger tracing the same pattern mine is now. I lie down on my side, and hold both pillows tight.
Across the room, Prim's desk is in perfect order. There's a sketch of Buttercup in one corner and a photograph taken the day I returned from my first games of Prim, our mother and myself next to it. For a moment I consider going through the drawers, but I don't think I have the strength for that just yet. In fact I can feel my brief calm receding. With my face pressed against the pillow, I breathe in Prim's clean, sweet scent. My vision of her perfect and pretty bedroom becomes blurred. My tears fall silent and continuous.
I spend the morning curled up in Prim's room, thinking about her life, her death, and the dream I had last night. Eventually, my mind drifts to Peeta and what he said to me days before about making peace with Prim's passing. There's nothing that can diminish just how much I miss her. But in my dream, she seemed happy, helping the pain fade.
When my eyes run dry, I sit up slowly, and replace the pillows. I straighten the quilt. I walk around the room, letting my fingers float over every piece of furniture. I've avoided this room for a year, convinced that I couldn't handle it. And maybe I wasn't stable enough a few months ago. But things have changed, and so have I. I no longer have to face any of this alone.
I change into clean clothing, and head down the stairs. There's a brief knock on the front door when I get halfway down, and Haymitch walks in without pause.
"Well, come on in, Haymitch. Make yourself at home," I tell him, when I reach the bottom. We usually let ourselves in to each other's homes, but it doesn't stop us from nagging one another about it.
"Alright, sweetheart, what'd you forget this time?" he asks, making his way into the dining room to sit in one of the chairs. I lean back against the wall opposite him and cross my arms over my chest.
"What are you talking about? I haven't forgotten anything," I defend myself, although, I very easily could have missed something with my track record.
"Well, something's gotten Peeta in a state," he explains.
"What do you mean?" I wonder briefly if Peeta was angrier than I thought, about me ordering him to leave.
"He had a minor setback. He had a flashback, and nearly scared the shit outta Hazelle putting his hand through a window," he explains, gruffly.
"Damn," I mutter under my breath. "Is he okay?"
"Oh, he's fine. I think the glass breaking shocked him back into consciousness, so no more harm was done. His right hand is pretty banged up though."
I look down at the floor in front of me, feeling so small. Whether Peeta's flashback was my fault or not, I should have been there. In my mind I picture Hazelle cleaning the blood off his knuckles and wrapping them up; that should have been me.
"When did this happen?" I ask, pushing away from the wall.
"Couple days ago."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?" I demand.
"'Cause he told us not to," he explains. "And I don't like to get in the middle of a lovers quarrel," he finishes with a smirk.
"Well, what made you change your mind? You're here now; telling me against his wishes," I challenge.
"Since when did I ever listen to anybody, let alone a moody teenage boy? Honestly, the boy hasn't looked right ever since. He just looks a little addled; lost."
"And you're telling me now because you think I can help?"
"Maybe you can, maybe you can't, but you certainly should be trying."
His chastisement immediately triggers my defenses.
"I haven't exactly been able to help, since no one thought to tell me what happened," I snap back at him.
"We shouldn't have to tell you. Tell me, sweetheart, you and Peeta have been spending time together everyday for how long?" he starts, and doesn't bother to pause long enough for me to answer. "Remind me, when was the last time you two were separated abruptly like this?"
I feel my knees go weak, and have to search frantically for a chair before I fall to the floor.
The arena. Blowing up the force field. The rebellion. Peeta's torture. It all comes crashing back to me, and now I feel completely mortified. I've been so stupid and selfish, yet again.
I sit at the table for a few minutes, lost in the memories. I faintly hear Haymitch leave, while in my stupor. I allow myself a moment of resentment that Haymitch seems to only come by when I've messed up. And then my mind snaps back to the real issue at hand.
I leave the house soon after Haymitch exits, and make my way to the bakery feeling penitent. I need to talk to Peeta. I need him to forgive my behavior; for using and then dismissing him, and for allowing myself to shut him out again for three agonizing days. I need to tell him that he was right, and that I have come closer toward the realization that Prim's death doesn't have to be as life ending as I've made it out to be. I need to apologize for abandoning him, and not being there when he lost himself amidst the despair.
I try to use the time walking to collect my thoughts, and figure out what I want to say, but when I step through the bakery's front door, my mind empties completely.
There are primroses scattered throughout the window, the display case, and the whole front room. Real ones in vases, sugar ones on a cake, and painted ones on iced cookies. My eyes dart quickly around the bright room, and come to rest on Peeta's face. Before meeting his gaze, I note the hair covering the lower half of his face, and then the shadows beneath his eyes. He looks worried and relieved all at once. I don't really know how long I stand in the doorway before someone comes in behind me, and I'm forced to actually enter. Peeta mumbles something to Isaac, and removes his apron as he walks toward me. He takes my hand and squeezes it gently, pulling me to the back. I look around once more at all the sweet little flowers as we pass them by.
When we reach the top of the stairs, Peeta pulls me into a crushing hug. I sink into his embrace, reveling in his familiar warmth and smell. Peeta releases me briefly prior to bending over and scooping me up in his arms. I feel slightly uncomfortable with the gesture, but I stay silent and still while he carries me over to one of the large chairs. He sits down, situating me on his lap. He places his hands on either side of my face, and studies it intently. His hands move around and down to the bottom of my braid. He doesn't ask before he pulls the band off and begins threading his fingers through it. I let my eyes close, and lose myself in the feel of his fingers. It startles me when Peeta's lips brush lightly across mine; with my eyes closed I didn't notice him lean in.
"Katniss…" he breathes. He shifts and presses his cheek against mine. He leans back against the cushions, taking me with him. I relax against him, scooting down enough in order to rest my head on his shoulder. We sit there silently; Peeta's fingers weaving through my hair still.
"I'm sorry, Peeta," I choke out, after nearly ten minutes. I feel my eyes water, and quickly blink away the tears.
"I know," he replies. "I'm sorry too."
I push away from him slightly to see his face better.
"What are you sorry for?"
"For listening to you, and walking out. For not staying and helping you sort everything out," he admits. "And my greatest offense has been staying away from you for three days," he finishes. He brushes my hair back over my shoulder, and I notice the bandages on his right hand. I grab it quickly, trying to be gentle.
"Oh, Peeta, I completely forgot." I run my fingers over the gauze and tape, and lightly kiss his knuckles. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I should have been with you. This wouldn't have even happened if I hadn't been so stupid."
"It's not as bad as it looks. The window looks worse. The worst part is having to wear gloves when I'm kneading dough. Other than that I hardly notice it," he states, trying to reassure me.
"I still should have been there," I reiterate. "What upset you so much?" I ask, not entirely sure I want to know the answer. He looks at me with a guilty expression before speaking.
"The Capitol did a really good job of convincing me that it had always been your intention to leave me in that jungle. And that every good thing you did was all just a ruse; a show for the cameras. I tried to fight against them so hard because I knew they were wrong. But then they started using my memories from after our first games; when I figured out that everything that happened in the cave really was just for the audience. They wore me down, and that was when I began to hate you. After you kicked me out those vile memories started resurfacing until I finally snapped, and punched out my bedroom window. But I swear it wasn't like a real flashback. I know none of that is real, but I was just so frustrated. I was angry with myself and you, I wasn't sleeping well, and I just let myself get overwhelmed. I will never hurt you, Katniss."
"I know, Peeta," I murmur, and smooth his furrowed brow with my thumb. "I trust you." I brace myself for the change in subject, and physically swallow, imagining my pride going down with the saliva. "You were right, you know; the other night."
Peeta opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head quickly to cut him off.
"No. Please let me get this out while I can." I take another deep breath, exhaling slowly. "I know I shouldn't have used our physical relationship to avoid facing what's troubling me. You mean more than that to me; what we have together means more than that. I'm sorry I didn't demonstrate that fact clearly." I finish my short speech and relax slightly, having gotten that out.
"A simple 'sorry' would have worked," Peeta replies with a grin. "But I loved your eloquence." He places a hand on the back of my neck, applying enough pressure to bring me back to him, and his lips. We kiss only briefly; both of us preferring to sit close together in silence.
After a far too short period of time, Peeta sits up, and brings us both to a standing position.
"I'm sorry, Katniss, I have to get back downstairs," he tells me reluctantly.
"I know. It's okay," I reassure him, nodding.
When we reach the first floor, I move toward the back door to leave, but he grabs my wrist, pulling me back to him. He leans down, placing another soft kiss to my lips.
"I love you. I'll be home soon," he murmurs, and then walks back out to the front room, and the sounds of his thriving business.
The word 'home' follows me all the way there.
Peeta walks through the front door even earlier than he had the other day when we fought. I've just pulled everything out to start dinner, so he joins in without pause. I can't help smiling to myself, standing at the counter next to Peeta. Our arms brush each other every so often as we both chop and prep the ingredients. There's still so much that we need to talk about, but for now we're both perfectly content to be back in this routine.
We assemble everything into a dish, to be put it in the oven for thirty minutes, during which time we sit on opposite ends of the couch waiting for the other to speak, or for the timer to go off.
"I liked the all the primroses," I tell him. He looks my way, and one side of his mouth begins to curve upward.
"I was worried when I first thought of the idea. I thought you might slap me again. I was envisioning the primrose bush incident," he admits, chuckling lightly. I smile in response, remembering my poor reaction last year to the bouquet Peeta had put together from the flowers on the side of the house. We certainly have come quite a long way.
"You said 'home' earlier," I blurt out after another few minutes of silence. Peeta stares at the fireplace and doesn't respond right away.
I wasn't upset when I heard him call my house home. It comforted me, actually. I hadn't given much thought to the subject on the night I had ordered him to go home and he declared that being with me here was his home. I was too angry with him for pushing me away, to recognize that I was in fact the one pushing him aside; the one forcing him to leave his home.
"I've felt that way for a while now, Katniss," he confesses, meeting my gaze once again. "The house I share with Hazelle, is where I go to sleep, shower and change my clothes. But there is nothing that ties me to that place. These past few days spent without you were utterly miserable. The Hawthornes are kind, warm and generous, but being there recently has felt as cold as District 13 used to feel."
"You and Gale were wrong, you know," I tell him.
"What do you mean?" he asks, a confused expression on his face.
"I overheard you two talking that night in the Capital before we got separated. He said that if all three of us survived the war that I'd pick whoever I thought I couldn't survive without. And you didn't disagree with that statement."
"Katniss, I was—,"
"No need to explain anything," I say, cutting him off. "But I realized something. I can survive without either of you. I can hunt, cook and clean just fine on my own; I've been doing that ever since my dad died. But there's no purpose to that surviving without you." I pause for a moment letting those heavy words hang in between us. Peeta doesn't speak, sensing my wish to continue. "When my dad died and my mother…disappeared, it was Prim's presence that kept me from fleeing to the forest and she held me to that house.
"I've been so lost since her death. This house may belong to me, but I've felt like a stranger here; like I don't belong here without her. That is, until you came knocking down my door, and burrowing into my life further than ever before." I stop again, not for effect, but for the oven timer. I turn off the oven completely, and leave the food inside. "Come with me, Peeta," I tell him, and start making my way up the stairs. I stop in Prim's doorway, and he joins me a minute later. "I spent all morning in here. All this time I've been blaming myself for her death. I've been spending my time mourning the loss of her, and I lost myself at the same time. So, thank you," I tell him, turning to face him. "For grounding me back to this life again. I can do all of this without you, but that doesn't mean I want to. Because I love you, Peeta," I finish finally. Peeta's eyes drift closed and he leans his head back against the doorjamb.
"How long?" he whispers.
"How long have I loved you? Or how long have I known?"
"They aren't the same?" he asks, opening his eyes and searching my face.
"I don't think they are," I admit finally.
"Well, then. Both, I guess."
"I've only known since my birthday."
"But you loved me before then?"
"I've cared for you ever since the day you threw me that bread. I started falling for you long before I knew what that meant and felt like."
"And when was that?"
"The Victory Tour at least and possibly even the Games."
"Really?" Peeta responds, raising his eyebrows, shock written across his face. "What took you so long to figure this out?" he asks, trying hard, I can tell, to keep sarcasm out of his voice.
"I didn't realize what was happening because I never wanted this." I slide down the wall, and sit in the hallway, my knees bent, and my back against the wall. Peeta joins me after hesitating briefly. "I saw my mother fall to pieces when my father died. I saw children ripped from their families, only to be killed on live television. I watched children starve to death, and women sell their bodies, before I could even read. I knew from a very young age that I did not wish to grow up, fall in love, and have kids. I wanted no part of the circle of devastation I had been born into. And there was certainly no way I would inflict that kind of torture on my family. It always seemed better to me to just not have a family, and you can avoid all that pain and misery."
"Yes, but in the process you avoid happiness, love, passion."
"I had Prim. She was all the love and happiness I needed."
"And the passion?"
"Don't they say ignorance is bliss? I didn't want or need what I knew nothing of."
"Wasn't this all before the war? I mean, do you still feel the same?" Peeta asks, and I can see and hear the insecurity.
"I do. It's hard for me to believe that the Games won't ever make a reappearance. That doesn't mean that I love you any less, Peeta. That also doesn't mean I don't want you to move in. I just need you to know that this is all new for me, and I'm still adjusting."
"You are one of the bravest people I know. How can you let fear rule your life—wait, what did you say?" Peeta's eyes widen and eyebrows rise. One corner of my mouth rises slightly. This wasn't precisely how I'd planned to tell him; really I didn't intend on saying anything today at all. "You said move in," he states simply.
"I did," I respond, just as plainly. "I mean, it just makes sense; you're pretty much here anytime you aren't at work. Sometimes you fall asleep here. It seems that you should just make it permanent."
"So, convenience is the only reason you think I should live here?" he asks, his eyebrows rising even higher. "There's no motive other than that I already spend so much time here?"
I shake my head slowly back and forth.
"Really?" he murmurs, scooting closer to me. "You're just trying to do me a favor?"
"Yup," I reply, my expression stoic. He leans forward; our noses merely inches apart.
"I call bullshit," he whispers, and then closes the gap between us. His lips melt against mine, and I don't remember it ever feeling so perfect and pure. "Well, where am I supposed to sleep?" he questions me with an innocent look on his face.
I really haven't given much thought to any of the logistics of Peeta moving in, but there's no hesitation in my mind where he'll be resting his head. Instead of verbally responding though, I stand and walk to my own room. I lie down on my back on one side of the bed. He pauses again momentarily, and then mimics my position, and we both stare up at the ceiling for a time.
A while later Peeta turns to his side, and I copy the movement, so that our gaze focuses on one another now. We both smile, and he pulls me closer to him, leaving his hand to rest on my hip.
"Welcome home, Peeta,"
A/N: So, I'm marking this complete. This isn't where I had originally planned to end it, but I think it works. I might post outtakes or futuretakes at some point, but I just hate leaving you guys waiting constantly for updates. In the future anything I write I'll try to complete before posting so that I don't get so behind.
I have loved and cherished every review and I'm so happy everyone liked this so much. I'm really excited to be writing again, and to know that people like it. I have about a million ideas for stories that I hope to get down on paper. It might just take me a while; I'm homeschooling my son starting Monday. Plus I still work three twelve hour shifts a week, and my husband is currently studying to take the entrance exam for medical school. Whew! I'm already exhausted.
Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and staying with me to the end.