The Secret Life of Bees Chapter 26: The Only Exception, a hunger games fanfic

The Secret Life of Bees

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. The Only Exception belongs to Paramore (and I don't care if I am an old spinster hag, I love them as much as a teenage fangirl, dammit).

Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!

Ships: Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

Summary: Peeta forces Katniss to go through Cinna's clothes, and Katniss learns a lot about her own path to healing in the process.

Rating: M for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

A/N: Well, I cried like a baby writing this chapter, because I love Cinna and Portia, and I love their relationships to and with Katniss and Peeta. Cinna and Portia were their friends, and I think that Katniss and Peeta both struggle with their memories and legacies. (I also firmly ship Cinna/Portia, so there's that.) Anyway, I think this would be very emotional for Katniss, but Peeta guilts her into it because he's right—she needs to do it sooner rather than later. Big-time lemons in the next chapter, darlings! Thanks for the support, reviews, and criticisms!

Holla atcha guidette on Tumblr at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!

AO3: pippiblondestocking

Chapter 26: The Only Exception

When I was younger I saw my daddy cry

And curse at the wind.

He broke his own heart and I watched

As he tried to reassemble it.

I feed the fire letters that I have no desire to read all day. The more boxes I go through, the more letters I find. Like Peeta had canvassed my house for letters while packing up my things and was intentionally rubbing them in my face. The fire consumes my mother, the way it consumed Gale—it consumes Plutarch and Paylor and a sticky note from Beetee. Destruction before creation, I remind myself coolly as the hot flames lick my fingers. I set aside letters from Johanna and Annie for later, back into the cigar box. It occurs to me that Effie Trinket was the only person beyond Twelve with whom I had regular contact, and that thought makes me sad for a brief moment. Haymitch and I quietly unpack everything—dishes, pots, pans, linens, books—only breaking our silence if one of us stub a toe or require more spiked cider. I feel my cheeks grow hot and flushed as I drank more hot bourbon. I stop unpacking my feelings, and start unpacking things. Things that belonged in Peeta's house. Our house. Eventually, Haymitch and his bourbon leave my company as the sun starts to go down behind the mountains, leaving me to Peeta and his devices.

Peeta finds me curled up on the couch as he bursts in through the front door, bearing fresh cinnamon buns. I narrow my Seam eyes at him, all the while staring into the roaring fire. He's whistling an unfamiliar tune as he heads to the kitchen, and I hear him chuckle as he discovers what remains of his cider.

He comes back into the living room with his own mug of cider, giving me a sly side-smile. I won't look at him—you're angry, remember? I tell myself as he settles in next to me on the couch, surveying the room with its now-full bookcases. The moment he's next to me, I feel my body settle reflexively against his. Good job being angry, brainless, I think. So instead of pulling away or forming coherent words, I just let out a long, winded sigh. And a hiccup. (Day drinking really catches up with you, whew.) Peeta winds his arm around my shoulder.

And my momma swore

That she would never let herself forget.

And that was the day that I promised

I'd never sing of love if it does not exist.

"It looks like you made some progress today," he says, playing with the end of my braid between his fingers. I snort and roll my eyes. "Did Haymitch help?" I shrug. "Katniss, don't be stubborn—"

"I'm not being stubborn!" I snap, glaring at him. "I'm mad at you!" His hand falls from my hair and he looks truly clueless.

"Why? You live here. I got your stuff over here. What the hell's your problem?" Peeta hisses, turning his gaze to the fire. I shake my head.

"You just don't fucking get it, do you, Peeta?" I snarl, taking a deep sip of my drink. "And who gave you permission to go to my house and go through my stuff?" With that, he jerks away from me suddenly, his blue eyes burning with something that looks like confusion and rage.

"You did, Katniss, when you agreed to move in with me," Peeta retorts, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a hard thud. I shake my head again, furiously.

"Peeta. I. Don't. Want. To. Go. Through. That. Stuff," I cry, pushing him away with both hands. "I'm not ready and I don't want to and you can't make me." He just laughs in response, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "IT'S NOT MINE!" I cry, wishing he'd open his eyes.

But darling,

You are the only exception.

"Katniss, I'm not making you do anything that you don't want to do. You moved in with me. I thought that you were ready to move forward," he sighs, throwing his head back in defeat and twining his fingers through mine. He stops my impending tirade, just like that. I bite my lip, and take a sip of cider, measuring my words. I turn to him.

"Peeta!" I whine, turning to him, his eyes still closed and his head still back. "Peeta! I want to be here, I want to be with you. I just don't want to deal with that stuff right now!" I kiss him, lightly, tasting fresh bourbon on his lips. He's spiked his, too, I think, what a troupe we all are. He opens his eyes, eyelashes fluttering on cheekbones.

"You have to do it, eventually, Kat," he says deliberately, looking right at me, like he can peer into my soul with his eyes alone. "What's so bad about now?" I involuntarily jerk away from him, biting my bottom lip. You're never going to be ready, I know he wants to tell me. None of us are ever prepared to deal with that which we've done.

"I'M JUST NOT READY!" I sob, with hot, wet tears spilling out of my eyes and down onto Peeta's chest. He shakes his head.

"You'll never be ready, Katniss," Peeta muses, swirling the spices in his mug. "None of us are ever FUCKING READY to deal with it. But we all have to, eventually. So what makes now so goddamn bad?" It's not in Peeta's nature to swear—he must be really frustrated with me.

Maybe I know somewhere

Deep in my soul

That love never lasts.

And we've got to find other ways

To make it alone.

Or keep a straight face.

"Cinna," I whimper, taking his face in my hands, "Cinna. How can I go through Cinna's clothes without being reminded of him?" Peeta lets out a short cluck of his tongue.

"Portia," Peeta says under his breath. "PORTIA," he says again, grabbing both of my shoulders and shaking me. "You know, Katniss, sometimes you act like you're the only person in the history of the world who ever lost someone they loved!" I'm dumbstruck, trying to find my tongue in my mouth. Peeta clucks his tongue, and takes my chin in his hands. "Katniss," he hisses against my mouth, "I watched Portia die. I watched them torture her. First, they executed my prep team. Then, Caesar. And then, they tortured her to death in front of me. They ripped her hair out by the roots. Eyelashes, one by one. They shaved her skin off, piece by piece. And the whole time, I heard her screaming my name, begging them to spare me. Even in her last breaths, as she bled out on the floor, she begged them to take her and save me." His voice is so cold, and yet teaming with emotion.

I'm speechless; there's not to say. How do you respond to that? I try to kiss him, and his lips are just out of my reach.

"I know that you love Cinna and that you miss him and you miss your friend. But don't you dare think for a minute that you are the only person hurting here," he finishes, his eyes wide and bottomless and open and evaluating mine. I sniffle.

"And there was no one here, when I got back to Twelve, to help me sort through Portia's clothes or my memories. To help me with the loss of my family. To help me remember the friends that I lost. To preserve the memory of my stylist and mentor and friend. You're not the only fire mutt here, Katniss," Peeta sighs, pulling my wet face against his shoulder. I didn't realize that I was crying like a small child until Peeta pulled me against him. His arms wrap around me—tracing my spine, the small of my back, the tendrils at my neck.

And I've always lived like this,

Keeping a comfortable distance.

And up until now I've sworn to myself

That I'm content with loneliness—

Because none of it was ever worth the risk.

"Let me help you, Katniss, please," he pleads, his eyes shut tight against my neck and my hands wind into his hair. "It'll be easier, it'll go faster, we can help each other," Peeta murmurs into my ear, and I nod.

"I should have helped you. I should have made more of an effort. I should have… been here," I muster dully, his heart beating into my chest. Confess thy sins. He shakes his head.

"It won't be so bad," he says, his voice cracking as his blue eyes gaze into my grey. I try to nod, and end up planting my mouth on his. He kisses me back, softly at first, then deeply—greedily.

"You always kiss me when you want to say 'yes' and don't know how to say it," Peeta muses. I attempt a smile. He pulls me into his embrace, showering my wet, hot, puffy, swollen face with light kisses. Before I know it, he's stood up and draped me over his shoulder, leaving the sofa and the warm fire behind us, hauling my ass up the stairs.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" I shout, trying to trash my legs, but Peeta has me tightly at the knees.

"Helping you," Peeta answers. Each and every step up the stairs hurts, and for a moment, I think I'm going to retch.

"Peeta!" I moan, "I'm going to throw up! I drank too much with Haymitch!" I argue, falling limp against his shoulders.

"Sounds like a personal problem, Kat," he sighs and sets me down against the wall. Next to the door to the room that I'm not allowed to go in. My head is swimming in bourbon and terror.

"I'm not allowed to go in that room," I say weakly. Peeta shakes his head.

"Of course you are. This is your house now. This is our room," Peeta counters gently. "This is our special room. It's where I come to think and sit, and mostly sit," he jokes, trying to break the tedium. I make my rabbit face at him.

"I'm afraid," I whisper. The bourbon clouds my brain.

"Why? It's just you and me. We already came out of two arenas and a war. There's not much left that can scare you," Peeta whispers back, opening the door behind me and beckoning me in. The last rays of the sun are illuminating every wall.

Well you are the only exception.

You are the only exception.

Peeta has painted this room to match the arena of the Third Quarter Quell; the bottom of the wall is deep magenta and it fades up into cotton candy pink, and the ceiling is the sky—light mimosa pink wisps of clouds. He has arranged two great armchairs by the window that faces the mountains, a conversational coffee table between them. One side of the room is almost entirely mirrored, against the doors of what must be his closet. This would make a lovely nursery, I think to myself, squeezing his hand. Peeta answers my unvoiced questions himself.

"This is the first room I painted when I got home, after I planted the primroses. Dr. Aurelius says painting will help me heal. And as angry as I was about the Quell, all I could think about was how beautiful the island was, and how we had a few fleeting moments of happiness there. I'm at peace here; here, before they hijacked me and scorched us beyond belief. But not beyond recognition," Peeta explains.

"It's peaceful," I mutter. He nods.

"That's the idea," Peeta says. "I come here to reflect. To think about the Games. To think about the war. I keep all of my things from the Games in here, Katniss. You can, too," he continues, pointing at the two wardrobes from my old house. "Dr. A says it's important to compartmentalize," Peeta finishes. I know exactly what he means. Keep things separate. Real from not real. "You can come here too, Kat."

I see my—Cinna's—trunks sitting on the floor, unopened. I take a deep breath, and lean back against Peeta's chest.

"Together?" I choke.

"Together," Peeta smiles against the back of my head.

"I want this to be fast, okay, Peeta? Like ripping off a bandage," I hiss, moving toward the trunks. He nods.

"Quick. Fast. Not adhesive. Gotcha," he replies.

I've got a tight grip on reality,

But I can't let go of what's in front of me here.

I know you're leaving in the morning

When you wake up.

Leave me with some kind of proof it's not a dream.

The first trunk is easy—it's full of my ball gowns and wedding dresses, neatly encased in plastic garment bags, with hangers poking out of the top. No need to open them to know what lies within. Easy. I instruct Peeta to just HANG those in the wardrobes; no need to open old wounds and try them on. They're just like doll clothes, pressed and put out for display. I swallow back thinking of how hard Cinna worked on them—the hours of sketching and stitching and sequinning. Now, it's hard.

Peeta rubs my back as I collapse in tears on the empty trunk.

"Sssh, Katniss, it's alright. Cinna and Portia—they wanted us to have these things. They wanted us to feel our best, to make a good impression," Peeta soothes, rubbing circles on my back. I shudder.

"We don't need to impress anyone anymore, Peeta," I cry softly. He tenses.

"Sure we do, Katniss. We were Tributes. We're Victors. We survived. No one can take that away from us. We still need to look our best," Peeta retorts. Remember, this is hard on him, too, I remind myself.

I take in a deep breath to steady myself.

"What's the use, Peeta? I don't want to disappoint Cinna if I don't look my best," I sigh, pushing the empty trunk away with my feet. Peeta shakes me to my senses.

"Katniss!" he says with fervor, "This is it—this is Cinna's legacy. This is what he left you. Don't waste it!" I shake my head.

"Cinna didn't just want me to be a pin-up, Peeta," I sniff.

"NO! He didn't! He wanted you to be confident and beautiful and powerful and strong, and he helped you the only way he knew how!" Peeta cries, matching my emotion with his own.

You are the only exception.

"I know," I reply, as I open the second trunk. The trunk that contains clothes that I might actually wear.

"Cinna and Portia wanted us to LIVE, goddamit," Peeta sighs, running his hands though his hair across his forehead. Think unsexy thoughts, Katniss. He holds up the dress I wore on tour, in Eleven—the one with the pretty fall leaves. I burst into tears at the very thought of Cinna picking out the fabric.

"Wearing their creations honors their legacy," Peeta says, firmly, wrapping me into his arms. "They would want us to wear them, Katniss." I'm not so sure about that, I think, but then I remember how much care and thought and time and effort went into these garments, and I realize Peeta's right—Cinna and Portia designed these clothes so that Peeta and me might actually use them and wear them and put them to good use. Waste not, want not, my father once told me.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Peeta," is the best reply I can give him. He rolls his eyes.

"You could wear this here, Katniss!" Peeta pleads with me. I shake.

"No—I can't! I won't!" I choke on my own words. Wearing these clothes would be like wearing Cinna's skin as my own like a pelt. Peeta disagrees with me. The dress stays. So do all of the other pretty sundresses and day dresses designed by Cinna's hands. Into pile they go without my arguments.

You are the only exception.

"They don't even fit anymore, Peeta," I say emptily, holding up a bright pink sundress with tiny black polka dots. Peeta cracks a smile.

"They fit better the more you fill out, Kat. My cheese buns will see to that," Peeta answers cheekily.

"It's stupid to look nice when we live in abject poverty," I say loudly, holding up a slinky black cocktail dress. Peeta smirks.

"We might have dinner parties sometime, Katniss. District Twelve—the times, they are a'changin'," Peeta hums. I make my rabbit face in reply. "What would Cinna say?" Peeta asks seriously. My bitch face falls.

"He'd tell us to look our best, to look nice… to make a good impression," I say dryly. I fucking hate it when he's right. We continue to go through the trunk. Skirts, tops, sweaters, dresses, pants, slacks—they all go into the pile destined for the wardrobe in our room. Things Cinna would want you to use, I say to myself on bated breath.

You are the only exception.

"Be practical," Peeta reminds me as we sort through the trunks. He's right, I decide, there's no reason why I can't wear these clothes now, save my pride and memories. I don't have anything to say as we open the third trunk and find a treasure trove of warm jackets and coats and furs and hats and scarves and gloves. Peeta pitches everything down to the bottom of the stairs, telling us that we'll put them in the mudroom tomorrow. The same rule applies to the shoes—flats, boots, and reasonable dress shoes go in one pile, and the high heels and sandals into another. Every iota of pride has been dispensed with in one fell swoop.

"I don't like sandals. They're weird," I tell Peeta. "I don't like my toes." He laughs.

"Summer is hot," Peeta reminds me. He wins this round.

The fourth trunk is my least favorite for any number of reasons; wedding dresses—those I can deal with. Underwear? Not so much. The last trunk is full of my fancy underwear and lingerie and nightgowns and pyjamas. I know Peeta will enjoy going through it—me, not so much. I feign sudden illness to sink into a chair.

"We're nearly done," Peeta says, kissing the tip of my nose.

"I know," I sigh heavily, "but Peet, I'll never need these." I hold out a pair of lacy red panties, rolling my eyes. Peeta leans in to kiss me on the mouth, deep, with his tongue.

"What if I told you that I like them?" he says into my lips. I'm speechless.

"You win this round?" I reply, pressing the panties into his hand, sinking to the floor, making my way to the trunk. "I guess it's fine if I wear this stuff, it's nothing special," I dryly say, tossing underwear and bras left and right. "I know you're enjoying this," I add wryly. He giggles.

"You can try to live in sweatpants, Katniss. But eventually, someone is going to judge you. That person would be Effie," Peeta hums. Everything that needs to be sorted has been sorted, and sits in a chaotic pile on the bamboo floor.

You are the only exception.

One last thing sits in that trunk. I let out a deep sigh, and Peeta goes over and pulls it out. It's my jewelry box. The lovely mahogany box with the mockingjay and my initials embossed in gold on top. The box that holds all of the jewelry that has ever been in my possession—save the pin, my locket, and Peeta's pearl. The jewelry that is entitled to every Victor. Gifts from the Capitol. Gifts from sponsors. Gifts from people who have never even met me or laid eyes upon my scrawny ass in person. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, broaches, hair pins, rings. Precious stones. Lots of amber and pearls and gold and silver. Nothing that looks appropriate on a fire mutt. Jewels and bobbles that would look nice on a girl from District One or the Capitol, but not the Girl on Fire from Twelve.

I shake my head. "No, Peeta. It's not mine," I sigh. He raises an eyebrow.

"Then whose is it? It sure looks like yours," he says, testily. I shake harder.

"Prim's," I shake. Prim. She loved to go through this box. She tried on every piece and gazed upon her beauty in the mirror and pretended to be a fairy princess. Her favorite story was the little girl with long braids who was locked in a tower and then rescued by a handsome prince. "He's just like Peeta, the prince!" she'd laugh, and try to put jewelry on me, and I'd oblige her. This is her jewelry, I think. It's not mine to wear. Peeta nods slowly, taking me into his arms, letting me breathe into his shoulder as my hands shake violently against the box.

"Okay," Peeta breathes against my hair. "It's Prim's. Let's keep it in our room, close to us, okay? Then—whenever you want to—you can have it close to you and go through it and be with her, okay?" Compromise is the key to a happy marriage, I remember my father telling me once, one day after he and my mother got into a shouting match. "She'd want you to wear them. Dress up. Cinna and Portia—they would tell you that every outfit is only perfected by accessories. Let Prim and Cinna guide you," Peeta coos. I nod. We stand.

"We're done?" I ask. Peeta stacks the empty trunks by the door.

"If you put your clothes away in our room tomorrow, I'll put the trunks in the basement—deal?" Peeta barters. I nod, sharply.

"Deal," I agree. Peeta wraps his arms around my waist, and my hands find themselves in his soft hair.

"Thank you," I whisper into his chest; his sweater smells like yeast.

"Do you want your reward?" Peeta says, shyly, opening the door. Reward? What, a reward for being a functioning human being? I think. He smiles at me in the dim light.

"Yes," I whisper, my hands playing across his broad chest, splaying across his shoulders as I give in.

And I'm on my way to believing.

Oh, and I'm on my way to believing.