AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I uploaded this chapter again due to some glaringly obvious editing issues that I missed earlier. They were driving me NUTS, so I fixed them!
Again, thanks so much for all the reviews and messages - so greatly appreciated! Please please PLEASE keep reviewing; I love to know your thoughts. It means so much to me to get reviews, you have no idea! It really does keep me writing.
Disclaimer: Obviously this is just my interpretation of the gaps in Suzanne Collins' brilliant words. I have quoted her though. Mockingjay, page 130.
Also, thanks to curious12 for giving me an awesome suggestion that I used in this chapter, and for having such great insights. She is such an amazing support to me writing this. Thank you xo
In an odd fit of enthusiasm I have dragged him outside to work in the garden this afternoon. I like it out here. There is no structure or symmetry to the garden, apart from Peeta's perfect row of primroses down the side of the house, but I like how it is wild and how it even feels unbalanced sometimes, depending on the season.
It has been a great day. Going into town and seeing the workers enjoy our food so much always gives me a lift. Today, being with Peeta in this new way, made it even better. And watching him describe the bakery was breathtaking; his face alight with excitement.
The sun warms my back as I dig deeper into the earth, hauling another weed out by its roots. Earlier I ventured into Haymitch's old shed and pulled out everything we needed. Surprisingly the shed is in perfect condition; I figure he must have had a gardener at some stage for it to look that neat. Lucky for us though, as now we have been able to spend the afternoon in the sunshine. I have been pulling out piles of weeds, while Peeta hacks branches and trims back the larger bushes. It feels good to be outside, to be doing something productive with the afternoon.
It isn't the work that I enjoy most though, it is the company. Whenever we get particularly close together I find myself staring at his golden eyelashes in the sunlight. Even when we drift further apart, to opposite sides of the yard, his muscles ripple under his shirt and make my mouth dry. It's unsettling, and something I'm not used to. I've never been so aware of anyone. Not like this.
One thing is becoming more certain to me as the afternoon wears on; I was not imagining things this morning or last night. He truly is back. For the last hour he has been regaling me with stories from his childhood. He goes into particular detail about weekends spent in his grandfather's garden, where they would hide and play together for hours.
"Once my father took over the bakery Grandad moved over to the south side of town, so he had this tiny little shack of a house with an enormous backyard," he tells me as I throw another pile of clippings in the wheelbarrow and come to a stop beside him. "There were bushes to hide in and stumps of enormous trees that he carved until they looked like chairs. And there was this patch of mushrooms in the corner, near the stream, and he would tell me that pixies lived there but that we would only find them if we were very quiet. We would creep around for hours, searching for the pixies but, funnily enough, we never found them." He chuckles softly at the memory and I join him, enchanted by the image of a little boy with a mop of blonde curls, only 4 or 5 years old, poking around in a garden with an elderly man with sparkling, laughing eyes. Peeta has never spoken of his grandfather before, but it is clear that they had a special bond.
His laughter fades and as he turns to face me his features soften slightly. "After he died, I would sneak onto the property at sunset. I would sit in that patch of mushrooms and talk to him; make up stories about the pixies. I was only 6, but I was certain that I could feel him there."
I smile and nod at him before reaching over to give his hand a squeeze. "He sounds great," I say gently. "We should put him in the book, sitting in the patch of mushrooms."
"Yeah," he agrees, that grin forming again, "that's a good idea."
He looks around the yard at the work we've done before glancing at the sky, brushing his hands on his pants as he looks. "It's going to be dark soon; we should finish up out here and get dinner started." I nod in agreement and the decision is made. We throw the tools on top of the clippings in the wheelbarrow – they can wait until tomorrow no doubt – before stowing it all in the corner and heading inside.
I get the fire started while Peeta quickly showers, and when he walks into the lounge room tousling his damp blonde curls my heart flips in my chest. I can feel a smile linger on my lips as I watch him muss with the tresses, trying to get them to dry faster and scowling slightly at their length. He glances up and catches me staring, before stepping closer.
"You've got a smudge on your nose," he laughs, reaching out to wipe it away. My skin warms at his touch and as we lean together our lips meet. It is soft and gentle, and the warm sensation spreads down into my chest before travelling all the way out to my fingers and toes. I can't believe how much he affects me.
I pull away, swatting at his arms, "Stop it! You'll get all dirty again."
"Is that a problem?" he flirts, raising an eyebrow at me. I laugh.
"Well yeah, you just got clean. You smelt pretty terrible before!" I laugh and dance away from his playful hit. His laughter keeps me warm all the way up the stairs, to where I close the bathroom door with a smile.
I strip hastily, dropping my clothes in a messy pile in the corner and avoiding looking anywhere near the mirror. I take a moment to fiddle with the taps of the shower. Once I have it just right I stretch my ankle under the torrent of water, followed quickly by the rest of my body, and I pull the glass door shut behind me. As the steady stream of hot water drums on my shoulders I close my eyes and shift my face to be directly in its path. Hot showers are the best luxury that living in the Victor's Village has to offer. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the stove and refrigerator, but after a lifetime of bathing in a tub of water, hot showers are heavenly.
A few months ago – soon after Peeta came back – I found myself spending more and more time in this very spot. I would stand here for hours, feeling nothing but the water massaging my back, hair and shoulders, feeding my scarred body with warmth. Lately, though, I have found myself losing patience with it. My showers have become shorter and shorter, my time spent simply standing beneath the stream of water drastically decreasing. Tonight, I just want to get on with it.
I grab the bar of soap; flipping it over and over between my fingers and palms to work up a lather. I quickly work my palms over my skin, and then squeeze shampoo onto my hands. After swiftly massaging it over my scalp I step back under the stream and within minutes I am done. How did I spend so long in here before? The water feels nice and all, there's a certain comfort that comes with it, but I lose patience in here now. I feel like there are so many better ways to spend my time.
Oh yeah, that's right. There wasn't before.
Pushing thoughts of those months from my mind I turn off the taps and step out, wrapping myself in one of the thick, plush towels from the well stocked linen closet. Another luxury that took a while to get used to when I first moved here. In fact, I resisted them, stubbornly using our old threadbare cloths that we brought from our old house at the Seam. But then, after the Quarter Quell was announced, I gave in. Thought I might as well enjoy a bit of pampering before facing my certain death.
Only it wasn't certain, was it? Here I am. And as I fling my towel alongside Peeta's on the rail I can't help but feel a twinge of gratitude.
As I walk down the stairs towards the golden light of the kitchen, a chorus of sounds hits my ears. The clinking of dishes; the pull, push and thud of the oven door; the rumblings of two very male voices, deep in conversation.
Haymitch is here. I suspected that he might join us for dinner. Lucky we left behind three servings of the stew this morning.
Peeta is fussing around the kitchen, stirring a pot of grain and then slicing the bread, while the stew that has just been removed from the oven still bubbles in its dish on the stove top. Haymitch leans against the counter, glass in hand, his voice animated as he talks about his geese.
I walk in quickly, aware that my contribution to the meal preparation has been minimal, and head straight to the drawers to grab knives and forks. Haymitch nods in greeting, but doesn't break the pattern of his speech.
"You wouldn't believe it; the a bunch of the dratted things had escaped! Somehow, a blasted hole has appeared in the fence!" he raves on, his voice fast and loud as I continue to gather things for the table. "They say that these birds are stupid, but they're not! And then I had to spend half of my afternoon traipsing around the village after em! They're lucky I don't just shoot the lot of em."
Peeta has appeared beside me at the table now, bringing over the dishes of food to place in the centre. He raises his eyebrow with a smirk, eliciting a little smile from me. I'm glad that he finds Haymitch's ranting as amusing as I do. We both know that he actually loves those geese, as much as he pretends otherwise. I am setting out water glasses when he leans across in front of me, to place down the plate of bread.
Suddenly I am completely aware of him, and nothing else. I'm aware of the strong, smooth arm stretched across the table. Aware of his elbow brushing slightly against mine. Aware of the minty fragrance of his shampoo mingling with the rich aroma of the stew. I breathe him in deeply and Peeta smiles a small smile in my direction before gently squeezing my hand.
Uh oh. The room is quiet. Uncomfortably so. Haymitch has stopped his rant and put down his glass; now his arms are crossed, and a knowing smile lies on his face.
"Well well well," he drawls, "I see you two have finally gotten your act together." A blush rises to my cheeks and I look away, hurrying to grab the stew from the stove top, but not before noticing the pointed look that Peeta sends in his direction.
"Okay okay," he says, "I won't say any more." I sigh in relief. "But I will say this, though. It's about bloody time".
I say nothing. Peeta just laughs and waves him over. "Sit down, I'm starving. Let's eat." And with that simple command, he smooths his magic over the room, and we eat.
After dinner, Haymitch makes a hasty retreat, saying something about needing to get up early to fix the fence. Knowing him, though, early means 11am.
"Thanks for the food. You two have a good night now," he says, as he throws a sly wink in Peeta's direction. I just roll my eyes, veering him down the hallway as Peeta fills up the sink.
Once outside on the porch the air is sharp and cold, but Haymitch doesn't appear ready to leave. He leans heavily on the railing, looking out into the yard and then up at the night sky. I hesitate but then join him, leaning one elbow on the banister as I face him.
"So, when'd he start talkin again?" His voice is quiet; he doesn't want us to be overheard.
"You noticed?"
"Of course I damn well noticed; I wasn't born yesterday. He talked about that bakery for well over half an hour. Hell, he's mentioned it before – even showed me the blueprints for the place – but he never talked half that much." He almost snarls the words, as if he preferred the silence. But I know it's just a cover. He is just as relieved as I am.
I can't help but laugh. It's true. Peeta did talk a lot tonight, and I liked it. After months of short, quiet conversation and companionable silence, his words filled the house tonight. And I am glad that Haymitch has said something; noticed it as well. Even though we had never explicitly spoken about it I knew that he would have realised that, for Peeta, being quiet was a problem.
"So...you gunna tell me what happened, sweetheart, or am I just going to have to guess?"
"It was yesterday. Well, last night, really," I respond. He just looks at me, urging me to continue. I can see I'm not going to get out of this one easily, so I look out at the yard, unable to face him while I talk. There's no point in being anything but honest with him. "I'd been out in the woods with Rory and when I came back he gave me that frown that he does. He has this frown that is filled with disappointment and anger, and all directed at me. So I lost it. I got really mad at him, saying how sick I am of that frown, sick of his disappointment, sick of not knowing how he really feels."
Haymitch just raises his eyebrows, knowing, but waiting for me to go on.
"I know, I know. I was being a hypocrite. But I was so sick of seeing him frown at me like I was the worst person in the world, so sick of him not talking to me about anything real... that I just lost it!" I shift my gaze upwards, staring at the millions of stars above us as I rub my upper arms to keep warm.
"And then it was like something in him snapped. He told me everything that he has been feeling since he got here: confusion, anger, frustration. It was like a dam had burst and all the words of the last year came tumbling out...
"So then, all of a sudden...he was back. It was like he was him again, you know?" I look back at Haymitch and he nods, a little smile twitching on his lips.
"Well, I'm glad," he says simply. "So the two of you are..."
"I dunno. I don't want to talk about it." I can feel a slight blush rise to my cheeks.
"But -"
"Seriously," I cut him off. "I don't want to talk about it yet. It's so new and confusing and I don't know what will happen yet."
"Okay okay," he puts his hands up in surrender and straightens up, moving forward. "I will say no more." He reaches the top of the steps and turns slightly, placing a hand softly on my shoulder. "But I will say this. Just be careful. He's still pretty fragile. You both are." Then he quickly moves away, not wanting to get caught in a moment.
I roll my eyes but know he's trying to help. "We will," I murmur with a smile.
And as I watch him cross the yard and hear him muttering under his breath, "About bloody time those two opened their eyes," I can't help but laugh again.
After everything is sorted in the kitchen- Peeta likes everything to be clean and put away straight after we eat, I guess it is a throwback from growing up in a bakery where good hygiene was crucial – we head into the lounge as we do every night. We decide to do something different tonight, though. Peeta found a couple of packs of cards buried in a drawer the other day, so we decide to play. I have never played cards before, I was too busy hunting and trading when I lived in the Seam, and if I wanted to have fun I was always outside, but he spent many hours of his childhood playing with his father and brothers as they waited for bread and cakes to bake. He teaches me.
"So a jack is worth 11, so if you have that and a 10, that makes 21...see?" He lays the cards out patiently, explaining the games in great detail. "But that's obviously the ideal situation; it's harder with smaller numbers."
"Yep, got it," I respond, impatient to get on with it. "Now deal the cards."
Turns out, I am pretty competitive. I like to win. He teaches me a game called Blackjack, and one called Canasta, and then we play a few fierce rounds of Poker. But it doesn't seem to matter what I do, he is much better than me.
"Stupid game," I mutter, throwing the cards down in front of me in frustration. Peeta struggles to stifle a grin, which just irritates me further. "What? You've had more practice than me! Of course you are beating me! What do you expect?"
But under my breath I murmur, "So I can survive two Arenas but this stupid game will beat me?"
He must have heard, as he actually has the gall to laugh at me, his shoulders shaking now as small chuckles escape his lips. I just scowl.
As a peace offering, he grabs my hand and lifts it to his smiling lips, pressing a kiss on my knuckles before grabbing the cards that I flung aside. But watching him flip the cards together expertly, the white of his teeth glowing in a grin that stretches across his face, I can't stay upset. He just looks so happy.
My eyes focus on his fingers as he shuffles the deck, and I can't help but notice the scars on his knuckles that are remnants from that terrible flashback a few weeks ago. I remember the charcoal black of his eyes, the horrible fear that it would win, that it would take him away from me forever. This handful of fading scars is a constant reminder of Haymitch's words: that Peeta is still so fragile; that we both are. That these particular scars aren't the product of months of torture in the Capitol – not directly, anyway – they aren't scars from cuts that burned months ago, years ago even. These are from fresh wounds, when old sores reopened, reappeared and then attacked us once more. We can't move too quickly, because we don't want the pain of them to devour us again. We have to continue to heal these wounds, or risk adding far worse pain.
But here, with the warm fire spitting and popping alongside us, with his smile plastered across his face, and a warm ember glowing in the pit of my stomach, it is hard to see anything but this moment.
"Okay?" He interrupts my thought process with his usual question, and I realise that I have been staring at his hands for a good few minutes, lost in my own world.
I laugh, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."
He places the cards down on the mat. "About what?"
"You. Me. How good you are at shuffling those blasted cards."
He laughs again at this, picking up the deck once more. "You sound like Haymitch when you talk like that," he says, eliciting another scowl from me as he easily slides the cards together. "Want me to teach you?"
I nod, certain that this, at least, is a skill that I can master. He moves himself across until he is right alongside me, his hip pressed into mine. Immediately, I feel warmth radiating outwards from that spot where our bodies meet, but I ignore it. "Right, so where do we start?"
He reaches over to grab the second deck of cards and hands it to me. "It's easier to learn with newer cards," he explains. "The corners are smoother. And while these ones aren't technically new, I think you'll be better with them."
I nod again, extracting them from the box, feeling their cool, smooth weight in my hands.
"Okay, so separate it into two equal piles." I do, lifting each pile up to my eye level to make sure they're even. He chuckles at this, "It doesn't have to be perfect, Katniss, just a rough estimate will do."
"Okay, okay...what next?"
"Pick up each pile like this." He picks up the cards, one pile in each hand, with his palms down and the cards facing the floor. I study how his hands look: his thumbs on one of the short ends of the cards, his middle and ring finger on the other end. I mimic him, my fingers moving awkwardly along the rims of the cards. It doesn't feel natural to be holding them like this.
"Good," he reassures me, "now bend them like this." He uses his fingers to bend the cards, his index fingers pressing the middle of each pile inwards, while his thumb brings the inner edges up. "Now you move your hands closer together so that the corners will cross over each other when you bring them down... and then use your thumbs to release each pile carefully, so that both piles mix up evenly." He does this slowly, and I stare intently. "See?"
"Yep. Got it." It seems simple enough.
"Then you do the second part – mixing the two piles together properly – but you've got to get the first part right first. And then you just keep practicing until you are shuffling as quickly as this," he says, grinning and gathering the cards swiftly before speeding through the steps fluidly.
"Yeah, yeah. Let me get this bit first." I slowly bend the cards over and over, trying to master this part before I move on. Then I move my wrists closer, still being as careful as I can, and painfully begin to release the cards with my thumb.
Damn. My fingers lose their grip and the cards fly towards one another, completely out of my control.
"Drats," I mumble, crossing my arms.
"It's okay, it happens," he soothes, gathering the cards that scattered across the floor with force. He hands them to me. "It took me days of practice to get it!"
"Give me another go. I'll get it." I separate the cards again, and hold them properly just above the rug on the floor. Every muscle in my body is concentrating on getting this right. I release them again.
Same result. Damnit. I try again.
Bit better this time. They sit in big clumps, not evenly mixed like when Peeta does it, but a vast improvement.
"Again," I say firmly, as I loosen my vice-like grip on them and allow them to fall together. As I go to separate them into the two piles, I glance up at him for encouragement.
Suddenly, as I look at him in the firelight, all thoughts of mastering this new skill flee from my mind. He is looking at me with such softness, such tenderness, that all of the tension drains from my body. I'm lost in his gaze. I had forgotten when it felt like to be looked at like this; so safe, so loved.
He reaches towards me and places one hand softly over both of mine, stilling them where they are, and the other gently on my cheek. Leaning forward, he brushes his lips so gently across mine before pulling away, grazing his thumb across my cheek bone. A small smile washes his lips, and his eyes are filled with love.
His clear blue eyes are so full of emotion that they spark a memory from another lifetime. There, though, the eyes I looked into were a grey so similar to my own, and instead of love they were lined with pain and grief. The boy who I had never seen cry had eyes filled with tears. And then, after having pressed my lips against his, he told me that my kisses were for the wrong reasons. I can still hear the words fall from Gale's lips, "I'm in pain. That's the only way I get your attention." At the time I couldn't make sense of his words, I couldn't see what he was saying. But now, thinking back to the hours after his whipping, and to Peeta's wounds in the cave, I can't help but think that maybe he was right. He could see something that I couldn't. He knew how I worked better than I did. Because back then... maybe I did do that. I hated seeing the people I cared about in pain. Maybe I just wanted to stop them from hurting in the only way that I knew I could.
But now, as I see the fire reflected in these sparkling blue eyes – with no hint of pain– it hits me just how strongly my fire for him burns. All of my confusion is truly gone. I'm not here to help Peeta, to help anyone at all. I'm not trying to stop him hurting...I am here because I want him. I'm here because I realise, for the first time, I love him.
I've never allowed myself to even think those words, but now they spread through me. I love him. I've always loved him; I have never been so certain of anything in my life. And nothing has ever felt so amazing.
I drop the cards into a pile on the ground as he gathers me into his arms, pulling me across his lap. His legs are stretched out towards the fire and I sit across him now, facing him. I reach behind around his head and pull him in before pressing a long, lingering kiss onto his lips. The heat simmers between us, the kiss sweet and soft, and I pull away, looking into his face.
His eyes are shut now, and he is breathing slowly – it feels almost like he is committing this moment to memory, unwilling to forget a single detail. I sit back, my fingertips softly smoothing along his temples before moving down the sides of his face. I softly trace the contour of his jawline with my fingertips, and I am overcome with an urge to kiss him there, to feel him beneath my lips.
I press my lips against his before pulling back slightly, and then resuming across the hard line of his jaw. Air rushes out of his mouth in a sigh, and as I settle in the soft patch of skin below his left earlobe he lets out a low moan before dragging me back up to meet him.
Our lips dance together in the firelight, the heat between us growing stronger and stronger. Our hands are everywhere, unable to get close enough as our tongues brush together and send sparks out to our fingertips and toes. There is nothing in the world that could feel better than this moment, better than being here with him.
I love him.