Disclaimer: I do not own HG/CF/MJ. Love them, of course!
A/N: Hope you enjoy. Thank you for reading!
Fool. Idiot.
To let it happen again. After all, I had sworn I would never let it happen again.
It's like that first time. The first time she broke my heart. Next to the train, on the way back to Twelve from our first Games. The time I'd made a ridiculous assumption that because she kissed me and embraced me, shared a bed with me, gazed lovingly into my eyes, and saved my life, that it meant something more.
And, despite thinking I had it all figured out, here I am again.
Frozen on my couch, I fight off the trigger, the sensations threatening to take over, the thoughts that she's a ruthless killer. No, I tell myself. That's not what she is. Not a ruthless killer. Not an assassin. But something else.
Obviously, the closeness that was growing and developing each day, the intimacies we were sharing, they meant something different to her than to me. I feel like an absolute fool. An idiot. Remembering the silly fantasies I'd allowed myself, the joy with which she'd take the pearl from me. The happiness at my words. All shattered, and I kick myself for the idle daydreams of a fool.
More triggers, shiny-edged images. I grip the coffee table in front of me, my way of mastering my impulses. She's not a killer. She's not evil. She's just….just….what? I flip through thoughts of her in my head. I know she needs me. That she cares about me. But is that the extent of it? When we lie in a bed together every single night, she holds my hand, we laugh and cry together, are these just the hallmarks of some kind of friendship but nothing more?
Fooled, once again. Peeta, the son of a baker who was rejected by the woman he loved. Full circle, life playing out in spiraling patterns. I should have known.
I slowly become aware of a cutting pain in my hands. Find them clenched so tight, that my fingernails are breaking the surface of my skin. As I work to unclench them, I see it. Still there. The symbol of hope. Hah! Sitting in my palm, where she left it. Resting there so innocently, but it must be laughing at me too. I want to throw it, to launch it – at a window, in a trash can, maybe the fireplace. I can't decide, all are such tempting targets.
But instead, I just hold it. Stare down at it. Recall memories I don't want to recall. Stretches of time weaving in and out of each other, snarling my brain. Katniss limply holding a bunch of wildflowers by a train. The cold slam of my door as she takes off. Alone in my train car, pounding my fists into a pillow. The look of recognition on her face as she sees the pearl.
I try to straighten it out, separate the different occurrences. The other time. That's the train. Coping by simply ignoring her. Staying away, avoiding any closeness except when it was required. But, accompanied by the ever-present ache of the separation. So many times, wanting to just be with her, regardless of her indifferent feelings.
I continue to sort the memories out. This time, her confused expression. Her hesitation before turning away and leaving. The way the word "marriage" seemed to form a bad taste on her tongue. My temper starts to flare again. Anger at her, anger at myself. This time, I resolve it has to be different. I stand, don't know what to do with the pearl, so just jam it into my pocket, and head for the door.
No ignoring this time. No long silences. No, this time, I'm going to have it out with her.
My walk to her house would best be defined as a march. Brisk, purposeful. I'm not even cognizant of the darkness around me, that somehow night has fallen, until I stumble on a small hole in her lawn. I curse it, blame it for everything. Arriving at her house, I don't bother with the front door. No point in it, as I know she locks it every night. So, instead, I park myself below her window. Her closed window. On a summer's night. Suddenly it's just another thing to hold against her, that she would be the kind of person to have their window closed on a night like this.
I start yelling her name. "Katniss! Katniss!" In some other place, some other time, this would be very embarrassing. But here and now, with only Haymitch to overhear me, I find the yelling actually feels good. I try again, full volume. "Katniss!" No answer. Damn well-built victor's house. Damn closed window.
Now what can I do? I want to scream at her, let her know how she has hurt me, but since she's not making an appearance, I look for some other target. Even in the dark, my eyes catch the outline of the primroses. I consider, but briefly, for she's already hurt those enough, so there's no real pleasure to be had there. She has two chairs by her front steps, two chairs we sometimes sit in to enjoy the summer days. This is the perfect target, because these chairs are mocking me too. Two of them. A couple. Together. Like I thought we were. I give them my best. A swift kick to the closest one. Which means I use my good leg and am briefly balancing on my prosthetic leg. Not always a good choice, and I lose my balance, fall forward, topple into the chair and onto the ground, scrape my hands in the process.
Now the vision of me must be truly pathetic. Even with no one to see, I actually feel the humiliation. This cools off the anger, just a few degrees, and after I stand and brush myself off, I plunk down on her front step, sullen and defeated.
Her front step. The same place I sat months ago, drunk, and looking for the courage to talk to her. I know better now than to consider alcohol this time, but I have to admit, it still sounds tempting.
The summer air teases me, so cool, so perfect. Stars glimmer above. Enough to make anyone ask, what could possibly be wrong on a night like this?
But, there is something wrong. The question I ask myself is, where do I go from here? I realize that the past few months, I've pretty much assumed that our lives were entwined, that I wouldn't have to consider again what I would do without her. But now? I have no ideas. No plans. Nothing.
A voice breaks the silence.
"The door was unlocked, you know." It's her voice, soft in the night. So wrapped up in my own thoughts, I hadn't even heard her open the door.
"Oh. I thought you always locked it," I answer dumbly, chagrined at yet another sign that I'm an idiot.
"I do. But, I kept it unlocked, just in case…." And her voice trails off. I hear her light footsteps as she comes toward me, and then sits beside me on the step.
I look at her, preparing to hate the cold, hard, unloving look on her face. But, when I see her, the concern in her eyes, the apology in her expression, I can't do it. It's not the face of someone who's indifferent towards me, not the face of someone who would prefer to be alone. I feel shame. Maybe I misjudged her, read something different in her reaction than was there. But, how can I know? I never can. I have to face it. I'm weak, always have been, where Katniss is concerned.
"I came over here to yell at you," I say, my voice quiet as well, as if there were actually people around to hear us.
"So, why don't you?" she asks.
"Good question," I mutter. We sit in silence after this, a small space between us, looking at the dry lawn. A quiet night, but for the far-off chirp of crickets.
Finally, she says, "I must be a very frustrating person to love."
"Then you know that, at least, that I love you?" I look at her, but she won't return my gaze.
"That's always been the easier part, hasn't it." She doesn't say it as a question, just a statement of something we both know is true. Steady Peeta, always faithful in his love, with a few exceptions of course.
More pauses in the night. Then, her voice. "Can I see it? The pearl. Do you have it?"
I dig into my pocket, and pull it out. Her hand opens for it, and I place it there, feeling the skin of her small, soft hands, relishing it for just a moment. Such a weak fool I am.
"I don't understand," she says, almost a whisper. "How can this be the same one?"
"After the fire. When they cut the clothes off of you, they found it. They gave it to Haymitch, he gave it to me." I feel myself getting sucked back into that hope again. I want to tell her more, tell her everything about what it means to me. But, I resist and stop there.
"But why didn't you show it to me before?" The same question I asked myself, and I give her the same honest answer.
"I don't really know."
She sits, caressing the pearl with her fingers, rolling it, studying every part of it. She keeps her gaze on the pearl, but speaks to me. "Peeta, about earlier. I'm sorry."
In my usual fashion, I start to say, "It's okay," which is dumb, because it's not. But, she doesn't let me say it.
"I just never…never allow myself to look to the future. Never. Except for maybe before…." and she doesn't finish the thought. No need to, as I know she's thinking of her father. "I've just always been too….afraid. So when you talked about a commitment, I just….won't let myself make plans like that. I'm sorry. I know I hurt you." And after a pause she adds, "Again."
And I feel some of the anger, just a small bit, well up again, and my words to her are not as soft, not quite as gentle. "I just think, well, Katniss, isn't it about time that you allowed yourself to realize that, despite all the horrific things that happened, the unfathomable price you paid, that ultimately some good things resulted from what you did? From your actions, the choices you made. You've given people hope, given them a future. All those kids, who used to stand outside, praying that their names wouldn't be drawn from the reaping ball. They have a future now. Every year, twenty-four of those kids that would have been brutally stripped of a future have one now, thanks to you and the rebellion. Their families, no longer torn apart from grief and loss. So, why not you? Why aren't you allowed a future?" My eyes sting with the hot tears forming in them, forming from the anger and the hurt, from the love I can't shake for this person sitting here next to me.
She doesn't answer, can't answer, not for awhile. "I don't know," she finally says. "Do you ever watch the ants out here, Peeta? I sometimes do, in the afternoons. I watch them do their job, carry these huge loads all over the place. That's all they do. Who knows if they want to, or if they dream of a better life someday. They just live in the moment, deal with what needs to be dealt with. I guess…I guess I'm kind of like that."
"But you're not an ant, Katniss. It's not your destiny to have a life of simply carrying loads, toiling, and slaving, even if it feels like it sometimes. You're a person. A person with a lot of life ahead of you. Can't you just allow yourself a chance at a future?"
She stares at the pearl, rolling it in her restless hands. "It's just hard. When I think about how many I've loved. How many of them I've lost. There's just…. so many. Too many."
And it's like I can see them all flash through her head. Her father. Cinna. Finnick. Prim. On and on, too many to count.
She goes on, her voice thick with pain. "I can't…. I just can't lose you too."
And in the dark, our hands find each other, like so many times before. No more anger, no more fighting. Just her. And me.
"You never have to," I whisper back to her. In the dim starlight, I see her eyes meet mine, glistening. And slowly and surely, as if it were the only possible thing we could do, the very thing we need more than anything else, we kiss. Sweet and gentle, warm and soft. A little awkward even, from all the time and history since the last kiss we shared, and altogether too short.
And there's no way I can deny it, my heart is filling once again with hope, just as it seems made to do.