I wanted to thank you all who gave me feedback last chapter, especially with what you wanted for the upcoming chapters! It seemed to be a fairly unanimous consensus that I continue writing at the pace I have been, even if it ends up being 200k words. Feel free to keep giving me feedback on my pacing, though, just to keep me in line. The readers who have stuck with me this far seem to enjoy the detail, so that's what I'll keep doing, but if it gets too unbearably slow/painful, let me know! I don't want to bore anyone to sleep!

Now, in pertinence to the second topic that I asked your opinions on, I've decided what to do but since I'm a terrible person, I'm not going to tell you yet. You'll just have to wait and see. ;) I think I've come up with an idea that'll make the largest amount of readers happy. That being said, we still have a few chapters to go before THAT level of intimacy even becomes a real thing, so just hold on tight!

After much writing and re-writing, I finally pumped this chapter out. It's much shorter than the original version I wrote, but the other version was sporadic and jumpy and not entirely coherent. I had a few scenes in the other one that I'd like to keep, but I'll probably just incorporate them later. I'm a little disappointed to have cut so much, but I don't want to give you guys bad quality just so I can write a few random scenarios that don't really fit with the mood.

Well, without further ado, here is another chapter from the lovely Peeta Mellark's POV. :)

Disclaimer: The foundation of this story and most characters are property of Suzanne Collins.

The letter comes on the first notably chilly afternoon of the fall; the sky, which reigns overcast in its low grey veil is more menacing than it has been for months. Leaves swirl up in turbines as I begin my daily march from the bakery back home for dinner. Haymitch trudges beside me, rubbing his palms fervently together to generate heat, puffing shallow breaths over them.

"Who decided that winter was starting early this year?" he gripes, his grumble of a voice muffled against his hands.

My eyes involuntarily flicker to the tree line a hundred yards from the dirt road we traverse; I'd left particularly early this morning to get a head start on a cake order. Katniss was still draped in one of my larger t-shirts at the time I parted with a quick kiss. I hope she dressed warmly.

As if to only magnify my concern, a hostile gust of wind swamps us, icy and unforgiving, pinching at my already rosy cheeks.

Haymitch has caught my wandering gaze.

"She's fine, Peeta," he drags, his tone carrying a stifled irritation. "She's a big girl, remember?"

"I know that," I bite back. And of course I do—I'm the one who spends hour after hour at her side each night and morning, enshrouded in her dynamic prowess. Apart from those gloomy evenings where her memories of Prim and Finnick and all those who she's lost suffocate her, Katniss is beautifully dominant and often carries herself with more confidence than I do. Most days, she is as fearless, as fierce as the girl that I used to admire from afar before the games twistedly brought us together.

But, of course, those gloomy evenings full of unwelcome, unpleasant recollections can't be disregarded. On nights like those, her ferocity steeply declines as she unwinds before my eyes. That Katniss, that helpless, defeated girl with no flame, is the Katniss that I actively worry over. If she should deteriorate to that level of brokenness while I'm away, the possible outcomes are not stacked in her favor. Although, collectively, Katniss is leaps and bounds more contented than she was just under a year ago upon return to District 12, she still reverts every now and then, regardless of how aggressively I care for her and try to protect her from the world around her. Occasionally, I wake to her screaming out her sister's name into the black, and regardless of how tightly I embrace her or how gently I kiss her, she cannot be consoled.

And maybe it's just the cold that revives that unwanted recollection of the night where Haymitch and I had to go out looking for her, but either way, the image flames clearly behind my eyes, sending my heart rate in alarming acceleration. I remember stumbling through the barren forest, the bitter air capturing my shallow breaths, crying out her name. Every tear that escaped from the corner of my eye was frozen, pinching my face. I was numb.

I remember the devastating fear that I'd lost her. Even just the memory in and of itself rocks me to my core. The Katniss on that night was the inconsolable, shattered Katniss. If she were to revert again…

I feel my mind beginning to slither away from my command. No. I can't do this here. I haven't had an episode without her around to moor me to reality in months. As much as I fear hurting her during my hallucinations, I know that I need her.

Haymitch seems to pick up on my edginess. Half-sober Haymitch appears to be the most attentive; he has just enough alcohol in his blood to keep him from being a jittery, skittish wreck, but not so much that he's inundated in his own falsified universe. I've come to realize that having him around the bakery is just as beneficial for his health as it is for my stress as now he has something to at least partially clean up for on a daily basis. Although he always has a flask accessible to him, he drinks significantly less than he used to. Maybe he just needed the company. And I'm sure that not having to fear watching two of your own young mentees get slaughtered every year in the Hunger Games, regardless of the actions taken to protect them, also eases the compulsion.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, alright?" This time, his assurance is more considerate.

My hands ball at my sides as I attempt to keep myself grounded. "I know. I know she's alright. It's just… the cold… it reminds me of last winter—"

"That's not going to happen again. She's comfortable again with her habit of killing small animals, God help us all. So you've got nothing to worry about."

I suppose not. Despite my poor excuse of a chuckle that ensues, my concern for her burns faintly in my chest, as I presume it always will.

We arrive at the Victor's Village soon after, our breath visibly swirling in the air as we exhale. I shudder at the thought that things will only grow colder before they can warm again. In attempt to distract my teeming mind and calm my nerves, my thoughts begin to tumble into pouring images of this upcoming winter. Long evenings by the fire (I miss those, as they've been harshly out-of-place this past summer due to the heat), hot chocolate, mint tea, the warm smell of rising dough wafting through the house. Blanket forts, wool socks, lots of cuddling. God, lots and lots of cuddling.

As usual, I invite Haymitch to dinner as we pass by his house. And, as usual, he declines with a huff and departs with an unenthusiastic, fractional farewell to go tend to his miraculously living flock of geese.

I'm about to start up the steps to my front porch when my eye catches on some deviant movement. My gaze flickers to the side where I see a young man, sporting a blue windbreaker and a bulky cloth sack draped over one shoulder, pull open the metal flap of Katniss's mailbox that's planted at the end of her drive. He has an off-white envelope tucked between two gloved fingers.

Receiving mail is a fairly conventional achievement on Katniss's behalf. She frequently writes to Johanna and Annie, even to her mother on days where her resentment toward her apathy is dampened, and collects responses reasonably promptly. But Johanna, Annie, and Mrs. Everdeen know by this point in time that letters to Katniss will reach her faster if addressed to my mailbox, not hers. Even though we've avoided the formality of officially having her move in, she hasn't set foot in her own place for weeks.

So after the mailman has strayed from Katniss's drive, I curiously hasten to the postbox, popping it open. Inside rests a sole cream-colored envelope. Intrinsically, it looks no different from any other letter that Katniss has received—that is, until I see the stamp resting in the top right corner.

It's from the Capitol.

My fingers, bare and aching from the cold, heist it from the mailbox as my gaze streams over the name in the corner opposite the stamp.

As if it wasn't already wintry enough outside, the blood that courses through my veins turns to ice, my breath hitching in my throat.

Gale Hawthorne.

What does he want with her? Why is he pursuing contact now, almost a full year since they've last spoken? A wave of stately protectiveness pans over my numbing skin, hints of suspicion and fear chiming in chorus. I attempt to justify my acrimony with the notion that the exchange may hurt Katniss, evoking suppressed memories, wielding her back into a state of anxiety and regression. After all, I could tell that warming back up to Rory was no easy feat for her, despite her feeble attempts to assume a compliant façade. And Rory wasn't even the one to have a hand in her sister's death.

Nevertheless, as I trudge through the overbearing gusts of wind, I can't help but cave and accept that a portion of my animosity must rise from this bubbling jealousy that resonates in my bones. Recollections of watching her watch him with a form of affection I felt I never could merit flood my mind. Even if her allegiance rests with me now, those silver eyes of hers used to comb over him like they comb over me now. She may say she never loved him like that, but her expressions are far more readable than she's aware. She did love him at one point, and I'm not even sure that she loves me now.

I yank open the front door of my home and stumble through the threshold, envelope still clutched sternly in one hand. The house rings with silence; Katniss has not returned yet, and surprisingly, I find myself sighing in relief. Muscles all over my body are trembling, my heart pounding wildly… I need to compose myself before she finds me.

My icy skin begs for warmth and I attempt to distract myself by lighting a fire in the hearth, but this action does not divert my attention whatsoever. After the bronzed flames are hungrily reaching up into the air above them, I shoot up, my entire body quaking as I pace back and forth, back and forth. My fingernails dig into my own palms.

Oh god, what am I going to do with Katniss? With the letter? I am smart enough to recognize that opening the letter before handing it to its rightful owner would infuriate her. She might just shoot me through the eye with her bow and arrow—and praying for her to miss would be absolutely worthless, as her aim is impeccable. So censoring the note is certainly not an option… and I can't conceal it either. Or burn it in the ravenous flame. I've come to find that my morality is resolute even in situations, much like this, where I wish it wasn't. Regardless of who sent the letter and regardless of its contents, it's addressed to Katniss and, therefore, must make its way to her. I only wish that it hadn't fallen into my hands in the first place—now I can't assume the innocent bystander approach.

With my jacket and boots still on, I pace back and forth in the front hall. My fingers still relentlessly clutch the paper, too afraid to let it drop or set it aside until Katniss returns. I ache to discern its subject; does he want her to come visit him? Is he just writing to tell her that he misses her? That he's in love with her still?

Oh god. What if he tells her that he loves her? The thought of it is what unwinds me and I allow myself to crumple on the sofa, hands tensely clutching my curls as the letter flutters to my lap. My chest is throbbing, a million strings of unrestricted thoughts boiling in my overcrowded mind. I know what's coming as soon as my muscles seize and suspend, but by now it's crashing into me too abruptly and too fiercely for me to prevent it. And Katniss is not here to anchor me. She's not here to hold onto me with her tiny, beautiful, nimble fingers, and sing to me until I resurface.

I think of her hands, soft and tender as I drown, and suddenly, they morph into rigid, angry fingers, grabbing at me. Scratching. Digging into my skin. The world around me melts into a cataclysmic black, nauseating bursts of color and fire penetrating the obscurity. Katniss's fingers have left me, and now they've found another… Gale. She holds him like used to hold me, in the cave at the games. Stroking, caressing. Whispering tender assurances. She loves Gale. Those glimmering, grey eyes focus on him as if the world around her has disappeared and he is all that is left. He is her sunshine, her hope, her everything... and I have been forgotten. But then she looks to me, cackling. It wasn't real, Peeta. None of it. I didn't love you. I never have. And now she's kissing him, those tiny fingers braiding into his hair, pulling him down to her hungrily. Oh, god. I try and stop them, lunging at them, but she pushes me away. I crumple to the ground, begging for her to come back to me, but she's gone. She loves Gale. I've loved him all along, you fool. Sirens rake through my mind, explosions engulfing my ears. Everything around me is rocking, trembling, and I feel sick. But I love you, Katniss. She cackles, silver irises now a flaming red. Stupid boy. Gale is laughing, too, and he is touching her in a way that I've always inwardly wished I could but knew she wasn't ready for. Only she responds pleasurably to his hold. When he kisses her, he is passionate, fierce, fiery, matching her nature in a way I never could. They are immersed in flames now, blinding light erupting from every angle. I cover my ears and hold onto whatever I can as the fire reaches me, consuming me. I'm screaming in anguish, flashes of excruciating heat licking up and down my skin. Somewhere off in the distance, a new sound resonates, but it's too far off for me to latch onto. All I hear is Gale's cackling, and Katniss's gratified sighs. But that sound, that distant hum, grows just clear enough for me to identify it. It's singing. Vibrant, patent, pure. Deep in the meadow, under the willow. I feel something on my face, and my hands fly defensively up to push it away, but it continues with the song. Here it's safe, here it's warm. Here the daisies guard you from harm.

It's growing clearer now. Gale's laughs and Katniss's moans have dulled, now overcome with the tune. Forget your woes and let your troubles lay, and when again it's morning, they'll wash away. The pain from the fire has dimmed compared to the satiny feel of fingers on my skin. I don't push them away now.

My mind bolts to all it can, wrapping around the melody as it pierces through the sting, the blackness, the dizzying flashes of color. The song rings clearly now. Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true. I feel myself emerging from the black, breaking through the surface of the nightmare. Cool air washes over my skin, shivers slithering down my spine as my eyes flutter open to a pair of affectionate silver ones.

"Here is the place where I love you."

Heat floods my cheeks as I find myself in the arms of the girl I love with every inch of my body. She has crawled onto my lap, legs on either side of my waist, one arm containing my shoulders and the other lifted so that her fingers can trace over my temple, my hair, my jaw, my lips. Fingers were the last thing of her that I could remember, and they are what brings me back, along with her song.

"It's not real," she coos, her lips finding my cheek. Where they graze my skin, a burning sensation arises—but this is not unpleasant or unwelcome. Her musky, fresh scent engulfs me; she typically returns like this after spending long hours in the forest. I've grown to love this about her, just as I've grown to love most everything else.

But now, behind my eyes, images of Gale holding her burn vividly. My body grows rigid as I try to push them out, but they still remain regardless, and my throat constricts. I let my face fall to her shoulder as I tremble, unable to hold myself together. I feel raw, humiliated, mortified with my own nightmare.

By now, I'm able to decipher between what is real and what's not when my hallucinations have subsided. But these days, after they have passed, instead of drowning in waves of confusion, I find myself overwhelmed with guilt and shame. How could I have imagined that? I pinned this fabricated reality on the girl I love more than life itself, thrusting a form of blame on her that she certainly never deserved… she could never warrant anything like that.

She sprinkles assurances over me with delicate kisses. I can't pinpoint what I ever did to deserve her, to have her take care of me when I should be nursing her. Her palms cup my jaw, and she tilts my damp face up to her. I can hardly see her through my blurred vision but even now she looks just as beautiful as ever, with her hair falling out of its braid, decorated with twigs and leaves, cheeks rosy from the cold. She looks like a little woodland fairy but ardent and fearless all the same. I could watch her forever, exploring every inch of the face I've memorized so closely—it's what I do already. I'll never admit it, but some nights, when she's submerged in peaceful slumber, I study her until I, too, drift off.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss. I can't stop them from happening… I can't control them…"

In the back of my mind, I see fire raging, Katniss and Gale kissing. I deteriorate all over again.

She hushes me gently, bowing my head into her collar. Even through her thick jacket, her heart beats clearly, calming me ever so slightly. She doesn't question the details of my hallucinations, as she never does in fear of sending me back under. But my episodes have been diluting over these past months, and when they do hit, the cause is always evident. So when she very quietly stirs, "Why did this one happen?" I pin it on her naturally curious nature.

When I don't answer her immediately, her voice grows smaller, and she whimpers, "Was I gone too long?"

"No," I pitch back almost immediately. I cannot let her believe that this episode was her fault, as they never are. She is my remedy, never my trigger.

When I guiltily incline my face to meet her expression, she is gazing down at me with a sad smile over her flushed lips. Even if I wanted to, I know that I could never keep anything from her. Not even this letter. And so, in shame, I slowly reach down by my thigh where the slightly-crinkled envelope has fallen. My fingers catch on its side, lifting it up to her. My eyes avert, unable to watch her as she reacts to the letter, or to my harboring of it.

A long, destitute silence ensues as she holds the letter with one hand, the other brushing through my hair. Although the immediate response of recognizing the name on the letter leads her hand to pause momentarily, she quickly gathers her composure to continue.

"Oh."

That's all she manages to say in this pitiful quiet.

When I finally muster the courage to slant my head up, her eyes are still pinned on the envelope, her eyes scanning it over and over as if she doesn't believe it's real. My raw, aching voice cracks out a weak, "I'm sorry." As I say it, uncut understanding bridges her expression, and her pools of grey lift to lock with mine.

"This is why you relapsed?"

I nod shamefully.

Her brow furrows slightly. "Because of Gale?"

"Because I… I don't know, Katniss." But I do. It was the thought of him loving her still and his contact bringing her back to him, reeling her away from me. Because he is much more like her than I am; he is strong-willed, he is passionate, he is fire in every sense of the word. Like my Katniss. She is fire, and I am the water that extinguishes her. She deserves someone better.

She draws me from my own self-deprecating pity. "Peeta..."

My eyelids clench tightly in defense, breath filling my tired lungs. "I'm so sorry," I whimper. "I didn't know what the letter would say. A bunch of different scenarios popped up in my head, and I couldn't control them. I didn't mean to think what I did, and I'm so sorry… I just started picturing what would happen if Gale were to tell you that he still loved you, and if he wanted to see you, and I—"

Before I can dig myself any deeper into a hole, my incoherent, rambling apology is severed by a kiss much more fervent than the earlier ones. She lets the letter flutter to the sofa at her side as she frees both hands, wrapping them around my burly shoulders. Tiny palms press into my back, the back of my neck, my hair… I lose myself in her atmosphere, much like I always do when I find us partaking in this intricate dance, involuntarily sighing her name into her lungs. My tongue traces her bottom lip, savoring her taste; she wraps her silhouette around me and I hold her close. When the tips of my fingers skim over her spine, she inhales, her breath hitching. I dissolve at the vitalizing sound of her whimpering my name, pushing me over the edge. I feel nothing but her. I love nothing but her, want nothing more, need nothing more. The image of flames behind my lids is extinguished. An upsurge of protectiveness courses through me, and all I can think is that she is mine.

When we part, her hand is cupping the nape of my neck as our foreheads press together. Our breaths steady in chorus.

"Don't think those things, Peeta." Before I can protest, she continues. "I know you can't control your hallucinations, but you have to trust me. Regardless of what this letter says, the only person I want is you." Her palms press against my cheeks, squeezing them in like one would with a small child, pursing my lips. "Gale could promise me the entire world with no effect. You heal me, Peeta. You offset my fire. Gale would only make it worse."

Even though the words themselves soothe the searing pain of my previous assumption, a new blaze burns in my mind. Fire. The image ignites again, and my body tenses, my eyes clenching shut. She instantaneously picks up on the trigger and quickly goes on before the situation can worsen. "Just… just trust me, okay? Trust me that no matter what is in this envelope, you have my heart. Do you think you can do that?"

It's not her who I have an issue with trusting. After these past few months, she has put every ounce of faith in me and sacrificed her invincibility by doing so; it's only fair that I reciprocate it. I've always trusted her with ease.

This ordeal should elicit nothing different.

"I can," I murmur back softly, my eyes opening again. Even though there is much inherent truth in my words, I know deep down that when it comes to Gale, I'll never be able to let my guard down. Or when it comes to anyone who could potentially hurt her, I suppose.

I just don't want to lose her. I can't lose her.

Her body twists as she leans over to grab the letter, and now she's holding it between us with a relatively indecipherable expression. For someone who has always proven to be fairly easy to read, this moment reigns as an evident anomaly.

"Now, do you want to do the honors, or should I?"

Her thumb toys at the flap on the envelope, her brow lifting. A nervous heat pangs through my chest, and despite my attempt to conceal it, it clearly contorts my expression. She takes that as a signal for her to pull back the seal.

And so she does. With a sickening rip, she tears the paper open, leaving my palms clammy and trembling. I watch her expression carefully as she pulls out a single piece of parchment, unfolding it delicately.

She gulps and begins to read aloud, her voice cracking before she even makes it to the second word.

"Dear Katniss…"

Well, there you go! Sorry it's short and kind of leaves on a cliffhanger, but as I wrote Gale's letter and the subsequent events, the mood contrasted so heavily with what I wrote earlier in the chapter that I decided they deserved a chapter of their own. I mean, the last thing I want to do is give you whiplash.

So, what do you think about the whole scene with Peeta's hallucination? I've always written Peeta's episodes from Katniss's point of view, and I noticed that very few fics ever address Peeta's hallucinations from his perspective (and the ones that I read were not very descriptive). So with this one, I kind of just ran with it and hoped for the best! It was really exciting for me to write something so... demonic, I guess, when the rest of my story up until this point has been alternating between bleakness and slow-burning passion. So, here you go, something a little different. What are your opinions? :)

(Oh, and I made a playlist for this fanfiction! Go check out my profile, there's a link for it there. It's essentially a myriad of songs that describe how Peeta feels about Katniss more or less. I'll keep adding as I go!)